3531 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


TAPS 


Story  and  Verse 

of  the 
Old  Academy 


By 


Charles  McMorris  Purdy 

\  I  4V 

1919 


Copyright,  1919,  by  Charles  McMorris  Purdy 


3  Xobinglp  Qtbtcate 


®Hi)o  idabe  fHp 

Dai-si  possible 


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^^ 

UBfiASY 


IMPS 


REVEILLE 

"Oh,  it's  time  to  get  up, 
Say,  it's  time  to  get  up — " 
The  bugler  calls  in  my  ear, 
And  I  wish  that  I  could  only  be 
A  thousand  miles  from  here. 

"Hey,  it's  time  to  get  up, 

To  get  up,  to  get  up — 

And  I  pull  the  clothes  over  my  head, 

And,  "What's  the  use  of  life,"  I  say, 

"I'll  just  stay  here  instead !" 

"Well,  it's  time  to  get  up, 

Yes,  get  up, — sure,  get  up — 

"Very  well,  I  might  as  well  now, 

For  you've  broken  my  rest,  and  I  will  be  blest 

There's  no  sleep  in  your  brassy  row!" 

"Are  you  up?     Are  you  up? 
Oh,  I  say,  are  you  up?" 
It  says  as  the  last  notes  end, 

But  I'm  up  with  a  laugh,  and  a  jest,  and  a  cheer, 
To  meet  what  the  day  may  send. 
(13) 


TAPS 

THE  OLD  ACADEMY 

Set  amid  stately  elms  and  grand  old  oaks,  the  old 
academy  with  its  red  brick  buildings  and  impressive 
white  columns,  looks  forth  benevolently  on  an  attrac 
tive  three-sided  pond  and  sloping  campus.  Beyond  the 
green  of  the  trees  and  the  grass,  the  church  spires  and 
court  house  dome  top  the  rim  of  houses  that  border 
the  academy. 

Beyond  the  school  lies  mile  upon  mile  of  rolling 
country,  fertile  land,  and  beckoning  woods.  Maples, 
oaks,  and  merry  brooks,  and  a  country  road  that  seems 
to  lead  into  the  land  of  heart's  desire. 

I  have  always  longed  to  follow  that  winding  road 
to  its  very  end,  over  the  bridge  and  around  the  bend, 
seeking  new  beauties  in  every  curve  and  dip  of  the 
road. 

But  as  I  stroll  about  the  campus,  my  eyes  come 
back  to  that  three-sided  pond.  If  it  were  just  a  bit 
larger,  one  might  call  it  a  lake.  It  is  a  sparkling  bit  of 
water,  and  on  a  spring  day,  its  surface  is  as  blue  as 
the  very  sky  above.  There  is  a  scow  on  the  pond, 
being  energetically  paddled  with  improvised  oars  by 
two  perspiring  cadets. 

They  are  having  all  sorts  of  sport,  splashing,  and 
howling  with  glee  as  they  make  an  effort  to  guide  their 
clumsy  craft  over  the  water.  There  are  trees  lining  the 
water's  edge,  and  the  scene  reminds  one  of  some  pas 
toral  painting  by  an  old  master. 

(14) 


THE    OLD    ACADEMY 

Here  and  there  cadets  are  grouped,  talking,  or 
reading,  or  playing  at  some  outdoor  sport.  I  notice  a 
boy  stretched  at  full  length  upon  the  greensward,  under 
the  grateful  shade  of  a  spreading  oak,  idly  tossing  bits 
of  dirt  and  twigs  into  the  nearby  water  and  watching 
the  ripples  as  they  circle  themselves  into  smoothness 
again. 

Two  older  fellows  are  taking  advantage  of  the 
spring  sunshine  in  a  more  dignified  manner.  They  are 
seated  on  a  bench  on  the  pond's  side,  lazily  discussing 
the  latest  topics  of  interest.  Perhaps  it  is  a  dance  in 
the  gymnasium,  or  about  the  coming  vacation,  or  per 
haps,  and  this  latter  suggestion  is  the  more  likely,  they 
are  talking  of  The  Girl  at  home. 

Between  the  new  barracks  and  the  limits  of  the 
campus,  there  stands  a  dignified  group  of  oaks.  Be 
neath  these,  two  smaller  boys,  presumably  from  the 
lower  school,  are  enjoying  themselves,  while  a  little  far 
ther  away,  one  of  the  children  of  the  faculty  is  having 
the  time  of  its  young  life  playing  in  a  sand-box. 

And,  if  one  cares  to  look  farther  in  this  direction 
down  Promenade,  one  can  see  a  brick-paved  street, 
sheltered  by  the  greenest  of  shade  trees.  Along  this 
street  you  may  see  cadets  coming  and  going,  for  the 
afternoon  is  off-campus  privilege,  and  the  cadets  are 
free  to  come  and  go  as  they  please. 

The  shadows  grow  longer  on  the  grass,  and  the 
sun  begins  to  sink,  casting  its  last  rays  on  the  flag- 
staffed  dome  of  the  Administration  building.  It  is 

(15) 


TAPS 

nearing  supper  time.  The  cadets  are  returning  from 
the  little  city  of  Mexico,  and  you  see  them,  jesting  and 
whistling,  as  they  come  down  the  path,  and  join  in 
animated  groups,  to  while  away  the  time  before  mess 
formation. 

A  bugler  appears.  He  walks  briskly  out  past  the 
flag  pole  and  sounds  mess  formation.  The  cadets  form, 
and  the  report  is  taken.  Then,  to  the  sounding-off  of 
the  bugles,  the  Stars  and  Stripes  are  lowered.  Retreat 
ends  and  as  you  cover  your  head,  you  see  the  cadets 
marching  in  to  mess  to  the  lively  tune  of  a  trumpeter's 
march. 

A  minute  later  the  sound  of  boyish  voices  floats 
from  the  open  windows  of  the  mess  hall,  and  you  know 
that  once  again  a  day  has  closed  on  a  scene  of  youth, 
whose  buoyancy,  however,  does  not  end  with  the  sound 
ing  of  Retreat. 


PREFACE 

There  is  usually  a  reason  for  writing  a  book,  and  I 
present  mine  in  this  question:  If  universities  like 
Harvard,  Yale,  and  Princetown  are  commemorated  in 
story  and  verse  by  their  sons,  why  shouldn't  a  prep 
school  be  honored  in  the  same  way? 

It  is  in  the  preparatory  schools,  military  or  other 
wise,  that  we  begin  to  value  the  true  meaning  of  friend 
ship.  It  is  for  the  enjoyment  of  those  boys  and  persons 
interested  in  the  life  of  a  preparatory  school,  in  this 
case,  a  popular  type  of  the  day,  a  military  academy, 
that  I  have  set  down  a  few  tales  and  verses  of  the 
school  which  for  the  sake  of  memory  I  shall  call  "The 
Old  Academy." 

The  size  of  this  little  volume  can  be  but  a  small 
corner  out  of  one  of  the  pleasantest  years  that  I  have 
ever  spent.  Memories  of  one's  youthful  Alma  Mater 
cling  with  one,  and  I  have  endeavored  in  a  fashion  to 
set  down  my  thoughts  in  these  few  pages. 

For  the  earnest  and  most  constructive  criticism 
rendered  me  in  the  preparing  of  this  book,  I  wish  to 
thank  my  friend  and  advisor,  H.  G.  Pfander. 

THE  AUTHOR 


CONTENTS 


Reveille    13 

The  Old  Academy  14 

Part  I 

Lonesome    19 

Part  II 

Old  School  of  Ours   29 

The  Squarest  Way 30 

Part  III 

A  Breath  O'Spring   45 

Stung    47 

Part  IV 

Alone   57 

The  Blindness  of  Jerry   58 

Part  V 

The  Bishop     Visits    69 

A  Little  Matter  of  Friendship    79 

Taps    95 


TAPS 


PART  I. 


LONESOME 

Larry  McBride  was  lonesome.  In  all  his  seventeen 
years  he  had  never  been  so  lonesome  before.  But  per 
haps,  in  those  seventeen  years,  he  had  never  been  away 
from  friends  and  home  for  such  a  long  time. 

Everyone  gets  lonesome  at  times,  and  everyone,  at 
least  nearly  everyone,  feels  the  need  of  someone,  a 
cheerful  someone,  to  brace  him  up.  Lonesome,  and  yet 
living  side  by  side  with  some  two  hundred  other  fellows 
who  didn't  seem  to  mind  being  at  school  in  the  least. 
Of  course  they  were  not  all  Larry's  age,  but  that  was 
not  to  be  expected.  Some  were  older,  some  younger. 
There  were  all  sorts  of  boys:  lean,  fat,  short  and  tall. 
Larry  had  never  seen  such  a  mixture  of  forms  in  all 
his  life. 

He  had  wandered  out  in  the  woods  back  of  the 
school.  No  one,  it  seemed,  cared  whether  he  went 
alone  or  not.  But  that  was  the  irony,  McBride  thought, 
of  being  a  new  boy.  He  did  not  stop  to  think  that 
perhaps  there  were  other  new  fellows  who  were  ex 
periencing  the  same  pangs  and  memories  as  he  was. 
When  one  is  lonesome,  one  does  not  stop  to  ponder 
upon  such  things  as  that. 

The  world  seemed  pretty  rotten  to  the  boy.  He 
wondered  how  Mother  and  Dad  were  getting  along, 
and  he  thought  of  the  good  times  in  the  city  he  had 
come  from,  with  a  regretful  sigh. 

Over  a  barb  wire  fence  he  climbed,  tearing  a  jag- 
(19) 


TAPS 

ged  rent  in  his  breeches.  Oh,  hang  the  luck,  anyway! 
He  was  going  to  have  a  good  time  in  spite  of  the 
school  and  a  little  tear  in  his  breeches.  Military  uni 
forms  were  a  new  thing  to  Larry,  and  he  had  not  quite 
gotten  into  the  knack  of  wearing  a  uniform  with  ease. 
He  felt  as  if  every  person  on  the  streets  of  Mexico 
that  passed  him,  turned  around  and  snickered.  Of 
course  that  was  a  more  or  less  erroneous  idea,  and 
perhaps  the  boy's  pride  had  taken  a  tumble  after  a 
week  in  a  school  where  a  boy  was  taken  for  his  worth, 
and  not  for  the  money  his  parents  had.  The  boy  was 
to  learn  that  a  military  academy  was  a  democratic 
institution. 

He  trod  briskly  over  the  fresh-smelling  earth,  try 
ing  to  perk  up  his  jaded  spirits  by  a  weak  rendition  of 
a  popular  ditty.  As  a  tune,  the  whistling  was  a  decided 
failure,  but  it  served  to  lighten  his  heart,  and  that  was 
the  most  important  thing  anyway. 

"Gee,"  he  exclaimed,  talking  aloud  to  no  one  in 
particular,  for  there  was  no  one  to  talk  to,  unless  one 
counted  in  the  squirrels  and  birds,  and  they  couldn't 
even  understand  him.  "It's  fine  out  here." 

The  words  that  he  uttered  were  plain,  and  not  ex 
pressive  of  the  beautiful  country  that  lay  on  all  sides 
of  him,  but  to  his  city-bred  nature  the  simple,  "Gee !" 
sufficed.  He  wasted  no  words  on  the  out-of-doors, 
but  drank  in  its  beauty  with  eager  eyes. 

The  woods  were  a  wonderful  place  to  Larry.  And 
it  seemed  that  they  were  to  every  boy  in  the  academy. 

(20) 


LONESOME 

On  Sundays  and  after  school,  the  cadets  would  stroll 
in  twos  and  threes  out  towards  the  woods,  high  in 
spirits,  and  teeming  over  with  good  health. 

Where  is  the  boy  or  man  that  does  not  enjoy  a 
brisk  hike  through  an  open  wood?  Larry  saw  these 
woods  as  a  paradise.  The  rolling  of  the  hills,  and  in 
viting  shade  of  the  scattered  trees  were  all  a  new  ex 
perience  for  him, — something  to  be  looked  into  and 
enjoyed.  He  found  a  picturesque  little  creek,  and 
stopped  for  a  moment  to  flick  a  leaf  into  cool  waters. 
Then  he  picked  his  way  across,  jumping  from  one 
stone  to  another  till  he  reached  the  far  side.  Up  the 
hill  that  rose  from  the  very  border  of  the  creek  he 
climbed,  and  reaching  a  well  traveled  path  at  the  top, 
turned  to  look  back  at  the  school  which  was  to  be  his 
place  of  habitation  for  nine  months  to  come. 

His  eyes  rested  on  the  majestic  dome  of  the 
academy;  the  red  brick  buildings  softened  by  the  green 
of  the  campus  and  the  countryside  around.  He  could 
see  the  football  team  practicing  on  the  gridiron,  and  an 
occasional  breath  of  wind  would  bring  to  him  the  sharp, 
authoritive  commands  of  the  coach. 

Larry  could  see  the  white  of  the  tennis  players 
and  almost  imagine  that  he  could  detect  the  very  spot 
the  balls  landed.  He  noticed  the  town  beyond,  a  pretty, 
home-like,  miniature  city,  that  bustled  with  life.  It 
was  the  county  seat  of  the  surrounding  county. 

And  then  the  country  road  that  wound  toward  the 
woods  and  disappeared  behind  a  thicket  of  bushes.  The 

(21) 


TAPS 

air  was  pure  and  redolent  of  September.     Nature  was 
at  her  best,  and  her  best  was  the  out-of-doors. 

Adventure  seemed  to  be  calling  to  Larry  that  after 
noon,  and  the  boy,  heeding  the  summons  with  quicken 
ing  interest,  turned  away  from  his  gazings  and  set  his 
face  toward  the  east.  Another  fence  barred  his  way, 
but  that  difficulty  was  soon  overcome.  Then  down  the 
slope  past  groups  of  trees,  of  what  species,  the  boy  did 
not  know,  to  a  little  valley — a  miniature  of  Nature.  It 
was  more  like  a  ravine,  but  McBride  in  his  ignorance 
of  the  country,  set  it  down  in  his  mind  as  a  little  val 
ley.  He  strode  along,  looking  with  interest  at  the  squir 
rels  and  birds  and  all  the  beauties  which  that  guardian 
of  the  earth  had  bestowed  upon  the  region. 

Looking  ahead,  he  saw  what  appeared  to  be  a 
tumbledown  shack,  apparently  deserted,  with  an  open 
ing  similar  to  that  of  an  ordinary  well,  at  its  side.  On 
second  glance  he  saw  that  someone  was  there  ahead  of 
him,  and  that  someone,  whoever  he  was,  seemed  very 
much  excited  over  something.  At  that  moment,  the 
boy  caught  sight  of  Larry  and  called  frantically  to  him. 
McBride  could  not  catch  his  words,  but  realized  from 
the  smaller  boy's  actions  something  was  wrong. 

He  wasted  no  time  in  reaching  the  spot.  As  he 
came  up  to  the  smaller  boy,  whom,  he  noticed  as  he 
ran  was  one  of  the  cadets  from  the  academy,  the  boy 
broke  out  into  a  violent  sobbing  and  pointed  speechless 
to  the  aperture. 

(22) 


LONESOME 

"What's  the  matter,  kid?"  Larry  inquired  hastily. 

The  boy  stopped  his  sobbing  and  pointed  in  the  di 
rection  of  the  opening.  "He's  in  there,"  he  choked;  "he 
fell  into  the  mine  shaft  and  he's  drowned,  I  know  he  is 
— ,"  and  commenced  sobbing  again. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Larry  asked  quickly,  shak 
ing  the  boy  to  stop  his  crying.  The  youngster  regained 
control  of  himself  to  answer: 

"I  was  playing  around  this  deserted  coal  mine  with 
Freddie  Mercer  and  he  got  too  near  to  the  edge  and  fell 
it.  It's  flooded  halfway  up,  and  he's  drowned.  Oh — !" 

McBride  rushed  to  the  edge  of  the  shaft,  for  that 
was  what  it  was,  and  looked  down.  It  was  as  the 
younger  boy  had  stated.  Rains  and  underground  seep 
age  had  filled  the  mine,  and  it  had  been  deserted  by  the 
miners  some  time  before.  Larry  knew  enough  about 
coal  mines  to  realize  that  a  tunnel  would  lead  back  from 
the  shaft,  in  one  direction  at  least.  And  there  was  a 
slight  possibility  that  the  missing  cadet  might  have  been 
drawn  into  this  passage.  If  he  was,  there  was  a  mere 
chance  that  he  had  found  an  air  shaft,  and  could  keep 
alive  until  aid  could  be  reached. 

The  new  boy  wasted  no  time.  A  hemp  rope  was 
hanging  in  the  pulley  that  once  had  been  used  to  bring 
the  coal  to  the  surface.  Small  mines,  such  as  this  one, 
were  frequent  throughout  the  part  of  the  country  in 
which  the  academy  was  situated,  and  this  system,  crude 
and  ancient,  was  still  in  use  in  many  of  the  smaller 
mines. 

(23) 


TAPS 

He  threw  off  his  blouse  and  began  rapidly  to  un 
lace  his  shoes.  He  knew  that  he  could  not  accomplish 
much  with  heavy  army  shoes  on.  So  in  a  minute,  al 
though  the  time  seemed  twice  as  long  to  the  impatient 
boy,  he  had  them  off  and  had  grasped  hold  of  the  rope, 
and  was  rapidly  lowering  himself  to  damp,  ill-smelling 
waters  of  the  flooded  shaft. 

The  water  was  slimy  and  full  of  correspondingly 
slimy  water  animals.  As  he  lowered  himself  into  the 
water,  a  lizard  darted  against  his  leg,  and  a  frightened 
water-snake  wiggled  away.  He  had  yet  to  find  the 
missing  boy  and  the  entrance  to  the  tunnel.  The  rope 
extended  to  the  bottom  of  the  shaft,  and  Larry,  taking 
a  deep  breath,  sank  into  the  black  water.  He  tried  to 
discover  the  body  of  the  boy  as  his  eyes  pierced  the 
water,  but  nothing  except  the  water-animals  came  into 
his  grasp,  and  they  darted  away  in  terror  to  seek  refuge 
in  the  corners. 

The  cadet  felt  as  if  his  lungs  would  burst,  so  he 
rose  to  the  surface  for  air.  There  was  an  opening  on 
one  of  the  four  sides  of  the  shaft,  but  Larry  had  not 
yet  found  out  which  side  it  was.  The  white  face  of 
the  smaller  boy  peered  over  the  rim  of  the  shaft. 

"Did  you  find  him?"  he  queried  breathlessly. 

Larry  shook  his  head.  The  the  thought  came  to 
his  mind: 

"Have  you  ever  seen  this  shaft  when  it  was  dry?" 

The  younger  boy  nodded  assent. 

"Then  tell  me,  quick,  which  side  the  tunnel  is  on." 
(24) 


LONESOME 

The  boy  wasted  no  time,  but  pointed  out  the  spot. 
McBride  filled  his  lungs  and  dove  for  the  entrance.  He 
found  it,  and  swimming,  felt  his  way  along.  If  he  did 
not  find  the  air  shaft  or  the  boy,  he  was  done  for, 
the  new  boy  thought.  The  time  seemed  hours,  and  yet 
he  had  been  immersed  only  a  second  or  so.  The  water 
was  growing  shallower.  He  raised  an  arm  above  him. 
A  draft  of  cool  air  struck  it.  Larry  came  to  the  top, 
and  lay  floating  on  the  surface  of  the  black  water  in 
the  pitch  dark  tunnel,  gasping  for  breath.  Then  he 
thought  of  the  missing  cadet.  He  groped  around  in  the 
dark,  clutching  always  at  the  vacant  air.  It  seemed  to 
him  as  if  a  bandage  had  been  placed  over  his  eyes  so 
that  he  could  not  see. 

He  did  not  know  where  to  take  his  next  step.  Then 
his  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  darkness  and  he 
could  see  what  appeared  to  be  a  shapeless  mass  a  few 
feet  ahead  of  him.  He  half  swam,  half  waded  through 
the  slime  to  that  blur.  He  touched  it.  His  hand  grasp 
ed  hold  of  something,  and  that  something  was  human. 
It  was  the  body  of  the  cadet.  He  gathered  up  the  boy 
in  his  arms.  There  seemed  to  be  a  flicker  of  life  in 
his  body,  and  Larry  brought  the  boy  to  the  old  air 
shaft.  Standing  to  his  waist  in  water,  McBride  applied 
the  few  simple  principles  of  resuscitation  he  had  learned 
in  the  Boy  Scouts.  It  was  difficult  to  accomplish  much 
in  the  half-flooded  tunnel,  but  Larry  tried  his  best. 
How  .odd  it  seemed,  for  he,  a  new  boy,  to  experience 
such  an  adventure  as  this  in  almost  his  first  days  at  the 
academy. 

(25) 


TAPS 

It  was  something  that  filled  his  mind  with  whimsi 
cal  thought,  and  if  the  situation  had  not  been  so  serious, 
the  boy  would  have  laughed. 

But  McBride  realized  that  if  anything  was  to  be 
done,  it  would  have  to  be  done  instantly.  He  had  read 
about  mines  having  openings  on  hillsides,  and  there  was 
the  barest  chance  that  this  deserted  coal  mine  might 
have  such  an  exit.  Larry  realized  he  could  never  get 
the  unconscious  boy  back  through  the  way  he  came,  so 
he  picked  the  now  slightly  warm  body  of  the  cadet  up, 
and  shouldering  his  human  burden,  staggered  through 
the  muck  and  water  in  search  of  an  exit.  The  water 
grew  less  as  he  advanced,  feeling  his  way  before  him, 
and  a  minute  later  he  had  reached  comparatively  dry 
ground.  He  groped  his  way  along,  turning  this  way 
and  that,  until  it  seemed  that  all  eternity  was  ahead. 

One  more  turn,  Larry  fancied.  Just  one  more 
turn.  He  was  utterly  exhausted,  and  his  breath  was 
coming  shorter  and  shorter.  One  more  turn,  he  mur 
mured,  and  drawing  every  bit  of  strength  that  he  could 
assimilate, he  lurched  around  another  corner.  A  brightness 
blinded  him.  A  breath  of  pure,  sweet  air  filled  his 
lungs,  and  Larry  knew  that  he  had  found  the  exit. 

He  laid  his  human  burden  on  the  ground  at  the 
opening  on  the  hillside,  gave  one  feeble  shout,  and  fell 
to  the  soft  earth,  exhausted. 

When  he  opened  his  eyes  again  he  saw  a  blurred 
group  of  boyish  figures  standing  about  him  and  felt 
someone  rubbing  his  wrists. 

(26) 


LONESOME 

"I'm  all  right,"  he  whispered  through  heavy  lips. 
"But  the  kid — ."  Larry  did  not  finish  his  sentence.  He 
was  too  tired  to  talk.  But  he  did  hear  a  man's  deep 
voice  saying,  "He  is  just  a  little  petered  out.  A  good 
rest  will  fix  him  up.  And  the  little  fellow,  he  was 
gotten  out  just  in  the  nick  of  time;  a  minute  more  and 
he  would  have  gone." 

McBride  did  not  try  to  hear  any  more.  He  was 
satisfied.  The  little  cadet,  whom  he  never  had  seen 
before,  was  safe.  So  he  fell  asleep. 

A  few  days  later  Larry  was  up  and  walking  about 
as  briskly  as  ever.  The  school  seemed  pretty  good  to 
him  after  all.  It  was  another  perfect  fall  day.  The 
sun  was  high  in  the  sky  and  the  shadows  on  the  grass 
were  enticing.  But  this  time  he  was  not  alone ;  there  was 
someone  else  with  him,  someone  who  was  very  big  in 
the  military  circles  of  the  academy,  Freddie  Mercer's 
brother. 

"Let's  go  over  in  the  shade,"  his  new  friend  sug 
gested. 

Larry  acquiesced.  He  would  have  agreed  to  any 
thing  at  that  moment. 

"Do  you  know,"  meditated  the  older  Mercer  as  the 
two  boys  stretched  themselves  out  on  the  grass,  "do  you 
know,  when  I  first  came  here  four  years  ago,  I  was  the 
lonesome  devil  in  the  academy?" 

"I  was  too,"  Larry  acknowledged,  squinting  con 
tentedly  through  half  closed  eyes  at  the  picturesque 
vista  of  the  pond, — "until  the  other  day." 

(27) 


PART  II. 


OLD  SCHOOL  OF  OURS 

From   your   entrance-way   to    your    flag-staffed    dome, 
You  are  fine,  old  school,  you  are  fine; 
For  many  a  month  you  have  been  my  home — 
With  your  barracks  of  brick,  your  sloping  loam; 
You  are  mine,  old  friend,  you  are  mine! 

The  years  have  rolled  past  in  unending  tide. 

You  have  stood,  old  school,  you  have  stood; 

And  the  men  who  passed  thru  you  with  pride 

Are    those    who    have    always    stayed   by    your    side — 

You  are  good,  old  school,  you  are  good ! 

Tho  the  years  may  pass,  and  we're  far  away, 

You  are  ours,  old  school,  you  are  ours; 

Tho  we  leave  you  each  graduation  day 

To  search  the  whole  world  and  find  what  we  may, 

Always  ours,  old  school,  always  ours ! 


(29) 


THE  SQUAREST   WAY 

Clinton  Bosworth  closed  the  book  he  had  been 
reading  with  a  snap  and  threw  it  disgustedly  onto  the 
library  table.  It  was  a  new  piece  of  fiction  and  he  had 
bought  it  at  the  bookseller's  under  the  delusion  that  it 
would  be  good  reading. 

The  night  was  stormy  and  the  rain  poured  down 
in  torrents.  It  was  a  miserable  evening  for  going  about, 
and  as  he  had  had  no  engagements  for  that  time,  Bos- 
worth  settled  himself  in  his  arm  chair  for  a  quiet  even 
ing  with  his  book  and  pipe. 

A  log  crackled  in  the  fireplace,  and  its  heat  soon 
ferreted  any  chill  from  the  room  and  made  it  as  snug 
and  comfortable  as  even  the  most  particular  of  bache 
lors  could  have  wished. 

Clinton  Bosworth  was  a  young  man,  bordering  on 
twenty-five,  with  light  brown  hair  and  eyes  that  fairly 
sparkled  with  the  good  health  of  youth.  He  was  alive 
in  every  sense  of  the  word.  Two  years  out  of  a 
western  college,  he  had  made  a  swath  in  the  path  of 
success,  and  now,  as  he  sat  before  the  open  fire,  the 
luxury  of  his  success  seemed  on  all  sides  of  him. 

His  apartment  was  in  good  taste,  furnished  in  the 
deep  brown  tones,  presenting  a  quiet,  substantial  ap 
pearance  that  was  typical,  in  a  way,  of  the  man  who 
lived  in  it.  Bosworth  had  not  let  the  suddenness  of  his 
success  go  to  his  head.  Nor  had  he  immediately  joined 
in  with  the  wealthy  crowd  of  idlers  who  inhabited  the 

(30) 


THE   SQUAREST   WAY 

clubs  and  lounging  places  more  frequently  than  their 
places  of  business,  if  they  had  any. 

He  was  well  liked,  and  rather  the  more  respected 
for  his  aloofness  from  the  fast  set  which  lived  about 
him.  He  had  been  brought  up  clean,  and  had  lived  a 
clean  life.  His  parents  were  dead.  His  mother  had 
gone  the  last,  and  her  words  to  him  had  been,  "Clint, 
go  straight,  for  my  sake." 

Clinton  Bosworth  had  firmly  resolved  to  live  his 
mother's  last  request  to  the  letter.  He  had  gone 
straight.  In  athletics  he  was  clean.  That  had  been 
instilled  in  him  by  the  coach  at  the  military  academy  he 
had  attended.  And  then,  when  he  started  out  on  his 
first  business  venture,  he  had  played  just  the  same 
clean  game  that  he  had  in  his  sports.  Success  was  his. 
He  had  played  straight  with  the  world  and  that  grim 
old  breaker  of  lives  had  been  kind  to  him. 

The  fire  crackled  and  spat  little  blue  flames 
through  the  gold.  Clinton  Bosworth  did  not  move.  The 
finished  book  lay  sprawled  on  the  table.  But  the  man 
was  not  thinking  of  the  story  so  much  as  he  was  of  the 
characters,  and  one  in  particular.  It  seemed  so  familiar, 
so  strangely  true.  Whom  did  it  remind  him  of?  But 
he  could  not  remember.  Some  odd  twist  of  his  brain 
withheld  the  illusive  bit  of  information  from  him.  His 
pipe  went  out,  and  he  absently  filled  it  and  lighted  it 
again. 

The  character  whom  he  had  in  mind  was  that  of  a 
man,  young  like  himself,  who  had  tried  to  cheat  in  the 

(31) 


TAPS 

game  of  life,  was  successful  a  few  times,  and  then, 
when  the  crisis  had  come,  had  been  exposed  as  a  cheat 
— a  sneak. 

The  story  had  been  distasteful  to  him,  as  well  as 
the  character,  but  the  author  had  played  cleverly  on  the 
reader's  emotions  and  had  given  to  the  reading  public 
a  passably  good  story. 

Bosworth  thought  it  a  bit  inconsistent  with  life. 
This  man  had  been  shown  as  a  cheat.  Wasn't  there  a 
good  strain  in  him  somewhere?  The  few  years  of 
contact  that  Clinton  Bosworth  had  experienced  with  the 
people  of  the  business  world  had  almost  convinced 
him  that  there  was  no  good  in  anyone.  But  his  better 
nature  had  rebelled  against  this  sordid  argument,  and 
he  had  begun  to  see  that  everybody  had  a  bit  of  good 
in  them  if  it  was  only  properly  drawn  out. 

He  thoroughly  believed  that  this  man  of  the  story, 
if  he  had  been  shown  the  way,  and  had  been  given  the 
warning  at  the  right  time,  would  have  uncovered  his 
spot  of  decency  and  have  become  a  man.  But  even  his 
defeat  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  would  not  have  taken 
away  quite  all  his  chances.  If  the  good  spot  in  that 
fellow  had  only  been  given  a  chance  to  show  itself. 

The  bachelor  sighed.  Why  did  the  author  leave 
his  story  to  such  an  unsatisfactory  ending?  Perhaps 
there  was  a  reason  for  it.  Bosworth  pondered  over  the 
fact.  It  was  cosy  in  the  room,  and  the  young  man  al 
lowed  himself  the  pleasure  of  an  indolent  stretch  and 
yawn. 

(32) 


THE  SQUARES?  WAY 

Well,  what  did  it  matter  to  him,  anyway.  It  was 
interesting  to  ponder  over  the  book,  but  it  did  seem 
almost  useless  to  get  in  such  a  mood  over  a  mere  bit 
of  print.  He  yawned  again.  The  warmth  of  the  room 
was  unusually  conducive  to  drowsiness. 

A  gust  of  air  swept  through  the  room.  Probably  a 
window  blown  open,  Bosworth  thought,  as  he  rose  to 
seek  the  source  of  the  chill  air.  Varnett,  his  servant, 
must  have  been  careless  in  fastening  the  window-latch. 
But  investigation  proved  that  the  windows  were  all 
securely  fastened.  Then  the  bachelor  noticed  that  the 
French  doors  which  opened  upon  a  small  balcony,  stood 
wide  open. 

That  was  unusual,  too,  Bosworth  muttered  to  him 
self.  The  wind  had  not  blown  those  doors  open,  he 
was  tolerably  certain.  Then  he  noticed  that  from  the 
bottom  of  the  draperies  there  protruded  a  clumsy  look 
ing  pair  of  feet — a  man's  feet. 

Realizing  that  the  intruder  was  unable  to  see  him, 
Bosworth  retreated  softly  to  the  library  table,  where  he 
slipped  a  revolver  into  his  pocket.  Then  he  returned  to 
the  French  doors.  With  one  hand  grasped  tightly  on 
the  revolver  he  advanced  his  free  hand.  With  a  quick 
jerk  he  pulled  back  the  draperies,  disclosing  a  very  be 
wildered  housebreaker.  The  man  said  nothing,  for 
there  was  nothing  to  say.  He  did  nothing,  for  it  is  not 
often  w7ise  to  move  when  a  thirty-two  is  centered  on 
one. 

Bosworth  was  the  master  of  the  situation  and  knew 
it.  He  was  curious  to  know  just  why  any  man  should 

(33) 


TAPS 

care  enough  for  the  simple  furnishings  of  his  apartmei 
to  break  in  on  him  in  this  unusual  manner.  The  bach< 
lor  had  a  bit  of  humor  in  him,  and  also  a  heart. 

"Step  out,"  he  directed  the  man. 

The  gentleman  with  the  face  like  that  of  a  scarce 
yellow  pup  did  so.  He  was  wet — drenched  is  a  bette 
word.  Anyone  could  see  that  he  was  not  a  regula 
crook,  but  a  greenie,  a  fellow  new  at  the  game.  Hi 
clothes  had  once  been  graced  with  the  mark  of  a  goo 
tailor,  but  they  were  shapeless  now,  and  worn.  Ther 
was  a  hopeless  expression  on  the  housebreaker's  fac 
that  reminded  Bosworth  of  a  man  he  had  seen  one 
who  had  just  been  convicted  of  murder  and  had  re 
ceived  his  death  sentence. 

As  I  said  before,  Bosworth  had  a  heart.  He  wa 
human,  and  it  was  because  of  this  that  he  saw  that  thi 
man  was  just  another  big  fellow  gone  wrong.  The  mai 
was  not  armed,  Bosworth  had  assured  himself  of  tha 
by  searching  him,  all  the  time  keeping  a  steady  finge: 
on  the  trigger.  So  he  curtly  ordered  his  prisoner  t( 
take  a  seat  by  the  fire.  "Take  your  coat  off  and  ge 
dry,  then  you  tell  me  what  you  mean  by  breaking  ir 
here." 

The  hopeless  expression  on  the  man's  face  die 
not  change,  but  nevertheless  he  did  as  ordered.  Ther 
as  he  held  his  shaking  hands  to  the  warmth  of  the  fire 
he  began  to  talk.  The  voice  was  not  that  of  a  man, 
but  of  one  who  had  tasted  defeat  and  had  gone  under. 
He  was  not  a  man,  but  merely  a  shell. 

(34) 


THE   SQUAREST   WAY 

"You  want  to  know  why  I  broke  in  here,  mister, 
and  I'll  tell  you.  Food  and  me's  been  strangers  for  a 
whole  week,  and  the  only  place  I've  had  for  shelter  has 
been  a  bench  in  the  park.  I  used  to  lead  a  straight  life 
once,  and  I  never  tried  to  play  crook  this  way  before. 
I  tell  you,  mister,  when  the  rain's  a-sloshing  in  your 
shoes  and  your  skin's  just  as  wet  as  the  rain  can  make 
it,  you'll  do  anything  to  get  to  shelter.  If  you  have 
ever  been  in  the  fix  where  you've  eaten  the  crumbs 
scattered  out  for  the  birds,  because  you  have  gone  so 
long  without  food  that  even  a  crumb  helps,  then  you 
can  know  just  why  I  broke  in  here.  But  you're  rich. 
Why  should  you  care  a  damn  whether  the  rest  of  us 
park  bums  go  hungry  or  not?  Now  don't  say  no;  I've 
been  in  your  place  once  myself.  I  tried  to  play  straight 
here,  but  when  your  stomach's  empty  and  the  front 
meets  the  back,  then,  mister,  hunger's  hunger !  I  put 
my  pride  in  my  pocket  and  tried  to  break  in  somewhere. 
This  is  the  first  place  I  struck.  As  a  bum,  I'm  a  fiz 
zle."  ' 

For  the  first  time,  Bosworth  noticed  how  weak  the 
fellow  was,  and  realized  that  there  was  a  grain  of  truth 
in  his  words.  But  he  was  not  sure  of  the  man.  The 
sympathy  gag  had  been  pulled  so  often,  he  reflected. 

But  he  would  give  the  fellow  a  chance.  There 
might  be  a  good  streak  in  him,  and  fresh  clothes  and 
food  would  not  hurt  any  man. 

"I  don't  know  whether  you  are  telling  it  straight  to 
me  or  not,  but  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  chance,"  the 

(35) 


TAPS 

bachelor  addressed  the  man.  "What  you  need  is  a  bath, 
clean  clothes  and  some  food.  Then  the  rest  can  come 
later." 

Half  an  hour  passed  and  the  housebreaker  was  sit 
ting  by  the  fire  again  hungrily  eating  the  food  that  Bos- 
worth  had  been  able  to  collect.  It  was  not  the  gutter 
dog  who  had  entered  the  apartment  a  little  while  be 
fore.  Arrayed  in  clean  linens,  for  he  was  about  Bos- 
worth's  stature,  with  his  hair  brushed  and  face  shaved, 
he  presented  to  the  eye  a  rather  pleasing  appearance. 

He  was  not  as  old  as  he  appeared  when  he  first 
was  discovered  hiding  behind  the  draperies  at  the 
French  doors.  In  fact,  he  appeared  to  be  the  bache 
lor's  senior  by  only  a  few  years.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
shell  of  the  street  had  been  completely  washed  off,  and 
a  new  man  put  in  its  place.  There  was  something 
strangely  familiar  about  this  fellow  to  Bosworth.  His 
voi'ce,  his  eyes,  and  that  disappointed  expression  in  the 
lines  of  his  mouth  all  seemed  strangely  like  someone 
he  had  come  in  contact  with,  but  where? 

Here  was  his  man  of  the  book,  in  real  life.  He 
wondered  how  the  real  thing  would  turn  out.  He  was 
sure  that  the  author  was  wrong.  Well,  here  was  his 
man.  Let  him  be  the  deciding  point. 

Food  and  raiment  seemed  to  release  the  locks  of 
speech,  for  the  man  began  to  talk  of  his  own  accord. 

"The  world's  always  been  down  on  me.  I  never 
seemed  to  get  along.  Even  when  I  was  a  kid  away  at 
school  the  fellows  didn't  like  me.  Perhaps  it  was  my 

(36) 


THE   SQUAREST   WAY 

own  fault.  They  thought  I  played  dirty,  and  maybe  I 
did,  but  I  was  out  to  win  the  games  no  matter  how.  I 
kind  of  played  at  football,"  he  explained. 

"And  then  I  got  through  school  and  started  out  for 
myself.  Folks  dead,  but  left  me  plenty  of  money. 
Well,  I  was  light-headed,  and  ran  through  it  in  record 
time.  Then  I  was  up  against  it.  No  one  wanted  me.  I 
had  a  name  for  being  dirty.  So  I  went  ahead  and  let 
them  think  so.  I  couldn't  make  a  living  in  a  straight 
way,  so  I  did  it  the  other  way.  It  was  all  right  while 
it  lasted.  But  I  got  gummed  up  in  a  street  deal  and  I 
had  to  leave  New  York.  I  went  down  the  line.  Same 
old  story.  My  reputation  went  ahead  of  me.  No  one 
wanted  me.  The  little  money  I  had  left  was  soon  gone, 
and  when  I  arrived  here,  I  was  broke.  I  kind  of  found 
out  that  money  isn't  the  only  thing,  although  it  will 
fill  one's  stomach." 

He  glanced  appreciatively  about  the  room.  Bos- 
worth  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the  table,  smoking  and 
saying  nothing.  His  character  was  pretty  near  that  of 
the  book  thus  far,  but  what  was  the  result  to  be,  he 
wondered.  The  outcast  went  on: 

"I  couldn't  get  work,  and  didn't  have  any  money, 
and  my  clothes  were  just  about  used  up.  So  I  hung 
around  the  park  with  the  other  bums  and  went  hungry. 
I  did  go  straight,  in  my  own  way.  I  never  went  so 
low  as  I  did  tonight.  I  had  too  much  pride  for  that. 
But  somehow,  while  I  was  wandering  about  the  streets, 
soaked  and  hungry,  I  gave  in;  I  simply  had  to  have 

(37) 


TAPS 

food,  shelter — anything.  And  so  I  broke  in  here.  I 
haven't  got  any  self-respect  or  any  future.  I'd  just  as 
soon  go  to  jail  as  to  starve  outside.  I'm  to  blame.  I 
know  that  now  only  too  well.  I  played  dirty  all  the 
way  through." 

He  stared  meditatively  at  the  sparks  as  they  glowed 
their  way  up  into  the  blackness  of  the  chimney.  The 
clock  on  the  mantle  ticked  steadily  away.  Bosworth 
was  silent.  The  underdog's  eyes  roamed  about  the 
room  again.  This  time  they  lit  on  something  that 
caused  a  spark  of  interest  to  kindle.  It  was  a  maroon 
and  gold  memory  book  that  lay  underneath  the  table;  a 
book  such  as  young  fellows  are  apt  to  keep  in  their 
"prep-school"  days.  Bosworth  had  brought  it  with  him 
from  the  military  academy  he  had  gone  to.  The  strange 
man  gulped  a  little  and  stared  again. 

"I  used  to  go  to  that  school","  he  muttered.  "It 
was  a  good  old  school,  but  they  hated  me  there.  I 
didn't  play  square  and  that  was  what  the  fellows  stood 
for.  When  the  men  in  charge  used  to  talk  to  us  about 
playing  square  and  fair  I  would  laugh  at  them  and  go 
on  playing  in  my  dirty  way.  You  remind  me,  in  a  way, 
of  a  fellow  who  was  captain  on  the  football  team  the 
year  I  was  there.  Clint  Bosworth  was  his  name. 

"He  was  square  as  they  made  them.  I  can  remem 
ber  how  he  used  to  take  me  aside  ,after  scrimmage  and 
try  to  get  me  to  play  clean.  Well,  He  did  the  right 
thing,  and  I  didn't.  And  now  it's  too  late.  I'm  at  the 
bottom  and  they  say  Bosworth's  leading  them  all.  I've 

(38) 


THE   SQUAkEST  WAY 

learned  my  lesson  but  I'm  done  for.  I  have  played  dirt 
and  the  world's  against  me."  He  lapsed  into  silence; 
the  clock  on  the  mantle  ticked  on. 

"I  guess  you  were  too  young  to  be  there  in  Bos- 
worth's  time,"  the  underdog  calculated.  "You  missed  a 
lot  though.  I'd  give  anything  to  be  back  at  the  old 
academy  again  and  let  them  teach  me  the  'play  square' 
game  again.  A  fellow  doesn't  realize  how  much  the  old 
school  at  Mexico  does  mean  until  its  doors  are  closed  to 
him,"  he  added  huskily.  Bosworth  spoke: 

"Your  main  trouble  seems  to  lie  in  the  fact  that 
you  didn't  play  the  game  straight,  and  tried  to  win  by 
playing  dirty." 

"That's  it,"  assented  the  man. 

"Why  don't  you  act  like  a  man,  get  on  your  feet, 
and  start  all  over  again — fresh — and  play  straight?" 

"Why  don't  I  ?  Haven't  I  been  telling  you  that 
I've  looked  for  jobs  for  the  last  month  and  that  no  one 
will  have  me?  No,  I'm  done.  When  the  world  sets  its 
mark  against  a  man  he's  done."  The  disappointed  look 
came  into  his  face  as  he  said  this.  The  world  had  ex 
acted  severe  toll  for  its  punishment. 

The  bachelor  was  in  doubt  as  to  the  man's  identity 
no  longer.  This  was  the  man  about  whom  he  had  been 
thinking  only  a  few  minutes  before,  when  he  had 
broken  into  the  apartment.  How  odd  it  seemed.  The 
man  he  had  been  comparing  with  the  character  in  the 
book  had  come  before  him  in  flesh  in  the  guise  of  an 
old  team-mate.  But  what  was  to  be  the  result.  Was 
the  author  right,  or  he,  Bosworth? 

(39) 


TAPS 

"Would  you  be  willing  to  really  work  for  an  hon 
est  living,  in  a  square  way  again,  if  you  got  tht 
chance?"  Bosworth  queried,  his  clear  eyes  searching 
the  less  steady  ones  of  the  weaker  man  as  if  to  find 
an  answer  to  his  question. 

"Would  I?"  asked  the  man  who  had  tasted  of  the 
bitter  cup.  "Would  a  drowning  man  grasp  at  a  straw? 
I've  been  punished  enough,  God  knows,  and  it  has  all 
been  my  own  fault.  I'd  go  straight  if  I  got  the  chance. 
But  it  seems,"  he  added,  a  wistful  smile  coming  to  his 
lips,  "that  no  one  needs  a  man,  even  if  he  wants  to 
play  fair." 

"When  I  went  to  the  academy,"  Bosworth  said, 
"they  were  teaching  that  the  only  way  to  succeed  in  life 
was  to  play  fair  and  square  with  yourself  and  others. 
It  was  something  that  always  stuck  by  me.  Now,  we're 
both  old  academy  boys.  You  took  one  path  and  I  took 
another.  You  sort  of  got  side-tracked,  as  it  were,  and 
fell  into  the  way  of  thinking  that  the  easiest  way  to  get 
along  in  the  business  world  was  the  dirtiest  way.  Now 
I  claim  that  the  easiest  way  to  get  along  is  the  squarest 
way." 

"I  guess  that  you're  right  about  that,"  the  older  of 
the  two  men  remarked  with  a  wry  smile.  "But  that 
doesn't  alter  my  case.  Here  I  am,  housebreaker,  un 
derdog  in  general,  and  broke,  and  you  haven't  turned 
me  over  to  the  police  yet." 

"Well,"  Bosworth  spoke  slowly,  "I  guess  that  if 
you  want  to  go  to  the  station,  you  can,  but  if  I  were 

(40) 


THE   SQUAREST   WAY 

you,  I  would  look  the  world  in  the  face  again  and  ac 
cept  a  position  as  representative  for  the  Bosworth 
company  in  South  America." 

The  other  man's  face  was  a  stage  upon  which 
various  emotions  mingled  and  intermingled.  His  chance 
to  play  square  had  come.  Would  he,  could  he  really 
trust  himself  to  play  straight? 

"Do  you  think  that  you  could  trust  me,  Mr. — er — ?" 

"Bosworth,"  the  bachelor  supplemented. 

"Bosworth?     Not  Clint  Bosworth?" 

"The  very  same." 

"And  I  always  used  to  call  you  the  "Square  Play" 
kid!  Well,  I  guess  it  pays  to  go  straight,  all  right. 
But  do  you  think  that  you  can  trust  a  man  who  plays 
dirty  like  me?" 

"I  can't  trust  in  a  man  who  plays  dirty,  no.  But 
I  do  trust  in  a  man  who  sees  his  mistakes  and  is  willing 
to  start  clean  again.  I  am  willing  to  risk  it  if  you  are." 

"Bosworth,"  the  other  man  whispered  huskily, 
"you're  square.  I've  played  with  you  in  football  and 
fouled  you.  I've  taunted  you  about  being  a  'square  play' 
sissy,  and  all  that,  and  still  you  are  square  with  me 
when  I'm  down." 

"Man,"  Bosworth  looked  friendly-like  into  the 
other's  eyes,  "back  at  the  old  Academy  they  taught  us 
that  square  play  and  fair  play  were  two  pretty  good 
things  to  learn." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  the  old  Academy's  just  about 
right,"  agreed  the  man  who  wanted  to  learn  how  to 
play  square. 

(41) 


TAPS 

Some  months  later,  as  Bosworth  settled  himself 
for  a  quiet  evening  in  his  apartment,  he  discovered  a 
letter  on  the  table  bearing  the  post-mark  of  a  commer 
cial  center  in  South  America. 

It  was  from  the  superintendent  of  his  foreign 
branches  of  the  Bosworth  Company.  As  the  young 
man  scanned  the  letter  his  face  assumed  an  expression 
of  complete  satisfaction.  The  man  who  wanted  to  play 
square  was  recommended  for  a  higher  position.  There 
was  one  passage  especially  that  Bosworth  dwelt  on. 

" and  he  is  gaining  fame  for  himself  and  his 

company  by  his  determined  stand  for  fair  play." 

Clinton  Bosworth  laid  the  letter  aside  and  picked 
up  the  very  book  that  he  had  pondered  over  some  time 
before. 

"For  good  reading,"  he  said,  addressing  the  book, 
"you're  rotten." 

And  thereupon  he  tossed  it  into  the  flames. 


(42) 


PART  III 


A  BREATH  O'  SPRING 

When  the  maple  trees  are  buddin', 

And  the  honey  bees  are  buzzin', 

All  the  flowers  are  sayin',  "Howdedo!" — 

Then  I  want  to  be  a-walkin', 

Along  country  roads  a-stalkin', 

A-fergittin'  school  and  huntin'  'ventures  new. 

When  the  robins  are  a-wingin', 

Or  in  nests  they  are  a-singin' 

Of  the  places  they  have  been  to  see; 

Then  I  feel  my  heart  a-thumpin', 

In  my  throat  it's  fairly  lumpin' — 

Cause  signs  o'  spring,  they  mean  a  lot  to  me. 

Yes,  it's  wanderlust  that's  callin', 
With  the  pink  peach  blooms  a-fallin' 
And  butterflies  a-sailin'   through  the  air; 
\Vhen  the  apple  trees  are  bloomin', 
Then  my  lessons  aren't  a-loomin', 
And  it  seems  to  me  I  haven't  got  a  care. 

Well,  the  spring  it  comes  a-bringin' 
Soft-like  breezes,  kind-a  springin' 
Out  o'  nothin',  it  always  seemed  to  me. 
Then  I  take  my  pole  for  fishin' 
And  I  set  out,  well  nigh  wishin' 
That  the  sun  wa'n't  a  shinin'  quite  so  free. 
(45) 


TAPS 

But  it's  spring,  and  I'm  a-livin', 

And  a  tan  to  me  it's  givin', 

And  makes  me  most  fergit  that  I've  a  care. 

It's  the  wanderlust  that's  cravin' — 

There's  some  folks  may  think  I'm  ravin', 

Just  to  long  for  lands  that's  always  green  and  fair 

Ain't  it  funny,  'bout  the  hopin', — 

Never  think  about  the  mopin', 

When  just  a  breath  o'  spring  is  in  the  air! 


(46) 


STUNG  t 

" In   the   spring  a  young  man's   fancy  lightly  turns  to 

thoughts  of  love." — Tennyson. 

I  am  a  rat.  Not  one  of  those  rodent  kind  of  rats, 
but  a  boy  kind.  Now  a  "rat"  at  the  old  Academy  is  a 
new  boy.  No  matter  who,  or  where,  or  how  he  came,  a 
new  boy  is  a  "rat". 

It  has  been  that  way  from  time  eternal,  I  guess. 
Even  the  commandant  himself  can't  remember  when 
that  appelation  has  not  been  attached  to  the  new  boys. 

Not  that  it  is  a  disgrace  to  be  a  rat,  oh  no !  But 
the  social  standing  of  that  class  is  not  quite  on  the  par, 
so  to  speak,  with  the  Old  Men.  However,  when  all 
the  cards  are  counted,  we  don't  have  such  a  bad  time 
after  all. 

But  the  fact  is,  a  fellow  does  hate  to  be  a  kind  of 
outcast  in  society,  and  although  there  is  no  written  law 
on  the  subject,  a  rat  has  about  as  good  a  chance  of 
getting  into  society  as  he  has  of  taking  a  street  car 
ride  in  the  little  city  of  Mexico. — There  are  no  street 
cars  in  Mexico. 

The  town  girls  usually  prefer  to  go  with  the  other 
men,  the  "older  men"  as  they  call  them.  No  self-re 
specting  damsel  will  go  with  so  lowly  a  person  as  a 
new  man.  Who  is  a  new  man,  they  inquire  rather 
scornfully,  that  they  should  waste  their  home-made 
fudge  on  one. 

So  that  is  the  reason  for  this  story.  I,  my  Caesar 
book,  a  friendly  hornet,  and  the  fact  that  I  am  a  rat. 

(47) 


TAPS 

A  Caesar  book  and  a  hornet,  you  murmur.  Then 
you  look  about  the  landscape  for  a  possible  answer  to 
the  riddle.  There  is  only  one  who  can  tell  you,  and 
that  person  is  I. 

To  begin  with,  it  was  a  beautiful  spring  day.  As 
a  great  many  spring  days  are  beautiful,  when  they 
aren't  rainy,  it  doesn't  matter  a  great  deal  just  what 
day  it  was.  But  the  fact  that  it  was  pleasantly  warm, 
and  that  it  was  the  kind  of  weather  that  makes  a  fel 
low  want  to  go  swimming,  will  suffice. 

I  am  not  the  sort  of  a  fellow  to  especially  incline 
myself  toward  studying,  and  plowing  through  Caesar, 
in  particular !  But  for  some  unknown  reason,  I  grasped 
my  Latin  book  and  sped  for  the  sheltering  coolness  of 
a  big  elm.  The  campus  is  dotted  with  large  trees,  and 
this  one  was  a  particular  haunt  of  mine. 

The  drill  period  was  over  and  the  cadets  had  been 
given  off-campus  privileges.  It  was  stranger  still  that 
I  did  not  go  down  town,  for  Duncan's  has  always 
been  a  sort  of  hang-out  with  me,  and  I  enjoy  nothing 
more  than  to  sit  in  the  balcony  and  eat  fancy  sundaes 
and  watch  the  pretty  town-girls  as  they  stroll  in  for 
an  afternoon  ice.  I  have  never  been  able  to  decide 
whether  they  came  for  the  refreshments  or  whether 
they  just  wanted  to  show  their  newest  dresses  off. 

Now  at  the  outset  it  would  appear  as  if  I  were  up 
to  something.  That  under  my  hated  thatch  of  fiery 
red,  my  mind  was  contemplating  new  hoaxes  to  spring 
upon  an  unsuspecting  faculty. 

(48) 


STUNG 

But  no,  the  thought  of  new  adventures  had  not  en 
tered  my  mind.  I  was  intent  on  my  Caesar  book,  and 
as  I  lay  sprawled  out  under  the  tree  with  my  nose 
buried  in  that  relic  of  the  past,  I  sneezed.  A  bit  of 
dust  had  taken  refuge  in  my  sensitive  facial  appendage, 
and  that,  combined  with  a  particularly  difficult  passage 
in  my  Caesar  lesson,  made  the  time  all  the  more  conve 
nient  for  a  heary  "Ker-chew!" 

But  that  sneeze  was  the  undoing  of  one  young, 
but  not  wise,  rat.  For  just  as  I  was  about  to  pay  hom 
age  to  the  particles  of  dust  that  had  familiarized  them 
selves  with  me,  a  hot-headed  hornet  flitted  gently  over 
my  body  and  landed  lightly  on  my  ear.  Evidently  the 
hornet  liked  the  ear.  It  was  sunburned  and  freckled, 
and  perhaps  a  trifle  dirty,  but,  on  the  whole,  it  was  a 
very  satisfactory  ear,  or  so  thought  the  gentleman  hor 
net. 

Now  since  the  very  first  hornet's  nest,  these  hot 
headed  creatures  have  always  manifested  a  great  dis 
like  against  sudden  movements.  Perhaps  in  the  original 
nest,  in  the  Garden  of  Eden,  Adam  accidentally  mas 
sacred  one  of  the  hornet  family  by  dislodging  it  from 
his  person.  According  to  the  best  of  records,  Adam 
wore  rather  light  clothing  in  those  days  and  was  quite 
ticklish.  Any  way  the  hornet  family  have  always  har 
bored  ill  will  against  the  person  who  so  rudely  dis 
turbs  their  basking  meditations.  Or  so  it  was  with  that 
particular  hornet  who  took  such  an  unmistakable  fancy 
to  my  ear. 

(49) 


TAPS 

I  sneezed.  And  as  I  said  before,  it  was  my  un 
doing.  For  at  that  moment  I  jerked  my  head  in  sym 
pathetic  motion  with  the  sneeze,  giving  Sir  Hornet  a 
terrible  jolt.  It  seemed  incomprehensible  to  him  that  a 
human  being  didn't  enjoy  his  company,  especially  a 
human  with  such  fine,  freckled  ears.  This  made  the 
hornet  very  angry.  He  re-alighted  on  the  same  ear, 
and,  with  that  same  instinct  which  is  inherent  in  the  best 
of  us,  severely  repremanded  said  ear. 

I  rose  from  the  ground  with  a  shriek.  To  have 
heard  it,  one  would  have  thought  that  I  was  on  the 
verge  of  being  massacred.  The  Caesar  book  fell  sprawl 
ing  to  the  ground  in  all  its  ancient  dignity.  The  beauty 
of  the  day,  the  picturesque  qualities  of  the  countryside, 
all  this  was  lost  to  me.  At  that  moment,  I  was  most 
busily  engaged  in  hopping  up  and  down  with  pain, 
holding  on  to  a  fast  swelling  ear  lobe. 

The  hornet  had  gotten  his  revenge.  Considering 
the  pain  to  which  I  was  subjected,  one  must  shudder 
when  it  comes  to  thinking  of  the  torture  Adam  must 
have  undergone  in  his  fig-leaf  habiliment. 

The  ear  hurt  very  much.  In  fact,  it  hurt  so  much 
that  I  almost  missed  seeing  a  very  prettily  dressed  girl 
walk  past  on  the  other  side  of  the  road. 

In  a  moment  hornet  stings  and  Caesar  book  was 
forgotten.  "By  the  holy  apes  of  Timbuctoo,  what  a 
pippin !"  I  managed  to  articulate.  "Gosh,"  I  added,  "I 
wish  I  wasn't  -a  rat." 

Then  I  turned  to  get  a  better  view  of  the  fair 
damsel.  Her  face  was  hidden  from  my  view  by  a 

(50) 


STUNG 

dainty  little  parasol  and  a  poke  bonnet  affair  in  pink 
that  looked  like  a  breath  from  paradise.  She  wore  long, 
white  gloves,  and  the  tiniest  pair  of  walking  slippers 
that  I  have  ever  seen.  "Oh,  boy!"  I  sighed.  "What 
a  pippin."  The  temptation  was  too  great. 

What  did  it  matter  if  I  was  a  rat.  She  didn't  need 
to  know  that  I  was  one.  It  wasn't  any  of  her  business 
anyhow.  It  never  entered  my  head  to  doubt  that  the 
fair  damsel  would  not  consider  a  chance  acquaintance 
ship.  Why,  I  meant  all  right,  and  it  was  perfectly 
right  for  me  to  speak  to  her.  She  couldn't  any  more 
than  turn  me  down. 

I  argued  it  out  with  myself  as  I  crossed  the  road 
which  formed  the  limits  on  the  western  edge  of  the 
campus,  and  began  to  follow  the  lady  of  the  parasol, 
long  white  gloves,  and  poke  bonnet.  She  turned  in  the 
direction  of  town.  Somehow,  my  courage  oozed  just 
a  little.  Not  much,  but  just  a  little,  you  understand.  I 
thought  it  wiser  to  take  a  look  .at  her  face  first.  I  was 
tolerably  sure  that  she  was  good  looking,  but  still,  I 
wanted  to  be  sure,  so  I  followed  her.  I  was  determined 
to  see  her  face. 

Try  as  .hard  as  I  could,  I  could  not  see  her  face. 
I  hazarded  all  sorts  of  guesses  as  to  the  color  of  her 
eyes,  and  the  kind  of  smile  she  would  bestow  upon  me, 
if  she  had  any.  I  doggedly  followed  in  her  wake, 
turning  this  street  and  that.  And  at  every  turn,  it 
seemed  as  if  purely  for  torment,  this  young  lady  of  the 
poke  bonnet,  parasol,  and  oh  yes,  I  forgot  to  mention, 

(51) 


TAPS 

delicate  pink  dress,  lowered  her  sun-shade  just  enough 
to  keep  me  from  seeing  what  she  looked  like.  How 
I  did  want  to  see  whether  her  eyes  were  brown.  I 
simply  must  see.  I  certainly  hadn't  walked  all  this  way 
without  even  getting  a  glimpse  of  my  lady  of  a  mo 
ment's  adoration. 

Sometimes,  especially  in  the  spring,  when,  accord 
ing  to  that  much  quoted  saying,  concerning  just  where 
a  young  man's  thoughts  turn  to,  boys  have  queer 
troubles  with  their  hearts.  Not  regular  heart  disease, 
you  understand,  but  a  rather  undefinable,  hurting  ail 
ment  that  only  a  very  pretty  young  lady  can  cure.  It 
was  the  same  way  with  me.  Here  I  hadn't  even  found 
a  chance  to  see  what  she  looked  like  and  here  I  was 
head  over  heels  in  love  with  her  just  because  she  wore 
a  light  pink  dress,  low  slippers,  and  a  peach  of  a  bon 
net.  Yet  I  would  never  have  admitted  to  anyone  that 
I  felt  this  way  about  the  girl.  I  really  began  to  doubt 
it  myself.  Me,  in  love?  Nonsense,  who  ever  heard  of 
such  a  thing!  One  just  can't  help  feeling  a  little  dif 
ferent  in  the  spring,  that's  all.  But  still  I  continued  to 
follow  the  elusive  maiden. 

If  you  have  ever  been  a  young  fellow  and  let  a 
dandy  spring  day  work  on  you  a  bit,  then  you  are  in 
a  position  to  sympathize  with  me.  The  excruciating  de 
sire  I  had  of  catching  just  one  glimpse  of  her  face,  her 
eyes,  or  even  a  word  from  her  gentle  lips. 

Now  I  had  no  idea  as  to  just  how  she  looked,  but 
I  was  so  sure  that  she  had  brown  eyes,  that  I  would 
have  waged  my  last  cent  of  spending-money  on  it. 

(52) 


STUNG 

The  everlasting  theory  that,  " — in  the  spring  a  young 
man's  thought's—,"  fairly  throbbed  in  my  head.  "Rot", 
I  tried  to  convince  myself  again.  "Whoever  heard  of 
a  cadet  falling  in  love  with  a  girl  just  because — ."  And 
here  I  would  stop  and  list  all  of  her  salient  features 
again. 

"Gee,  if  I  could  only  see  what  she  looks  like,"  I 
sighed.    "Golly,  but  she's  a  pippin,"  I  added  for  at  least 
the  seventeenth  time. 

For  you  see,  I  had  not  yet  reached  that  stage  of 
near-manhood  where  one  considers  himself  too  digni 
fied  to  go  tracking  about  the  town  on  the  trail  of  a  pre 
sumably  pretty  young  lady. 

It  was  a  merry  chase  she  led  me.  And  a  chase  in 
which  she  seemed  never  tiring.  Finally  she  passed  the 
hotel  where  the  cadets  always  made  themselves  at  home 
on  off-campus  days,  much  to  the  satisfaction  of  the 
owner  and  his  pocketbook. 

Across  the  railroad  tracks  and  on  toward  Warden 
Seminary  for  Girls.  Nice  place,  Warden,  but  was  it 
possible  that  she  was  a  seminary  girl?  No,  it  couldn't 
be  possible,  I  decided.  This  maiden  had  such  a  dis 
tinguished  carriage;  she  appeared  so  different  from 
most  of  the  Warden  girls  I  had  seen.  I  was  plainly 
puzzled.  I  was  sure  she  wasn't  a  town  girl,  for  none 
could  equal  her  grace  and  carriage,  and  she  seemed  un 
like  any  of  the  seminary  girls.  Who  was  she? 

But  soon  it  proved  that  the  seminary  was  not  her 
destination.  Instead,  it  was  the  only  park  that  the 

(53) 


TAPS 

town,  or  I  should  say,  small  city  of  Mexico  possessed 
A  park  that  consisted  wholly  of  a  marble  monumen 
erected  in  honor  of  a  former  famous  citizen,  severa 
hundred  blades  of  grass  and  a  few  trees.  Also  a  ce 
ment  walk  or  two. 

It  was  a  small,  sedate  park,  and  I  thought  that 
ought  not  to  have  much  trouble  in  meeting  the  girl  am 
finding  out  for  sure  whether  her  eyes  were  brown  o 
not.  She  sat  herself  down  on  one  of  the  somber  greet 
park  benches.  She  appeared  to  be  waiting  for  someone 
Perhaps  for  me ! 

I  crept  around  the  former  citizen's  monument  ir 
order  to  get  a  glimpse  of  her  face.  But  it  happenec 
that  even  on  a  spring  day  fate  was  against  me.  I  coulc 
not  see.  It  was  her  parasol  again. 

As  I  stood  behind  the  marble  shaft,  trying  my  leve 
best  to  observe  the  color  of  her  eyes,  a  colo'red  persor 
came  strolling  along  the  path.  The  colored  person,  E 
gentleman,  also  gave  evidence  of  having  been  smitter 
by  the  weather.  For  he,  too,  seemed  to  have  the  noi 
altogether  strange  desire  of  finding  out  the  color  of  the 
little  lady's  orbs. 

But  this  polished  chocolate-colored  sport  was  far 
more  bold,  but  not  more  curious  than  I.  Perhaps  he 
had  been  schooled  in  the  ways  of  the  world  longer  than 
I.  At  any  rate  he  seemed  to  have  no  hesitancy  in  ad 
dressing  the  young  lady  of  the  pink  dress,  white  gloves 
and  various  other  wearing  apparel. 

"Wa'l,  honey,  how'se  yuh  today  ?  Sweet  as  peaches 
an'  cream,  I  declar'." 

(54) 


STUNG 

I  was  astounded.  Even  indignant.  The  very  au 
dacity  of  the  colored  gentleman  caused  me  temporarily 
to  lose  the  power  of  speech  or  action.  Then  as  the 
'realization  of  the  insult  that  had  been  offered  to  my 
lady  of  the  parasol,  pink  dress,  poke  bonnet,  long  white 
gloves,  and  last,  but  not  least,  low  slippers,  I  awoke  to 
action.  With  a  bound  I  separated  myself  from  the 
somewhat  clammy  embrace  of  the  former  citizen's 
monument,  hurdled  an  empty  bench,  and,  with  a  face 
resembling  the  very  color  of  my  hair,  which  is  red,  I 
confronted  the  colored  gentleman,  and  the  lady  of  the 
brown  eyes,  presumably. 

The  astonishment  of  both  the  young  lady  and  the 
dusky  sport  was  mutual,  to  say  the  least.  And  as  the 
girl  that  I  had  followed  through  the  weltering  heat  of 
a  spring  day,  the  girl  I  had  set  my  heart  upon,  raised 
her  questioning  eyes  to  my  angry  ones,  I  saw  that  her 
eyes  were  brown. 

Her  eyes  were  brown,  yes,  but  by  all  the  seven 
holy  "apes  of  Timbuctoo,  so  was  her  skin! — 

So  that  is  the  reason  that  I  was  perfectly  willing 
to  go  back  to  the  academy  that  afternoon,  a  sadder,, 
and  much  wiser  rat.  Back  to  my  neglected  Caesar,  who 
was  standing  on  his  head,  just  as  I  had  dropped  him! 

Pyschologists  say  that  the  strain  of  revenge  runs 
through  many  generations.  I  do  not  know  whether  this 
is  true  or  not,  but  I  do  know  that  the  revenge  that  the 
original  hornets  back  there  in  the  Garden  of  Eden 
started  in  their  family  when  Adam  destroyed  one,  cer 
tainly  has  gone  through  a  good  many  ages,  in  no  whit 
lessened  to  vent  itself  upon  me,  a  poor,  ear-swollen  rat. 

(55) 


PART  IV. 


ALONE 
From  a  barracks  room  window  at  starlight 

At  midnight  hour, 

Alone,  alone, 

I  sit  and  watch  the  silver  star, 

Twinkling,  shine  in  the  sky  above. 

Humans  asleep  on  night  of  paradise! 

Blind  men,  mortals  all. 

And  silent  as  a  sleeping  lark. 

I  sit  and  watch, 

Alone,  alone, 

And  know 

That  I  have  met  my  God. 


(57) 


TAPS 

THE  BLINDNESS  OF  JERRY 

Jerry  Simmons  tilted  his  chair  against  the  radiator. 
The  air  was  crisp  outside  and  his  barracks  room  was 
not  altogether  warm.  It  seemed  as  if  the  heat  was 
always  turned  on  just  at  the  wrong  time.  If  the 
weather  were  mild,  the  steam  was  sure  to  be  on  in  full 
force,  but  if  it  were  cold, — that  was  an  altogether  dif 
ferent  proposition. 

To  tell  the  truth,  it  had  not  been  very  long  before 
that  Jerry  Simmons  hesitated  not  in  the  least  to  an 
nounce  the  fact  to  all  who  came  within  his  hearing,  that 
he  didn't  like  the  academy  at  all.  He  had  gradually 
acquired  the  reputation  of  being  a  chronic  grouch. 
But  now,  all  was  changed. 

Before  Simmons  had  come  to  the  academy  he  had 
been  a  merry-souled  fellow,  full  of  pep  and  initiative. 
But  the  fact  that  he  came  against  his  will,  that  he  was 
becoming  too  great  a  burden  for  his  invalid  mother, 
was  extremely  distasteful  to  him. 

Never  before  had  Jerry  Simmons  been  thwarted 
by  his  parents  in  a  single  desire.  He  had  always  been 
carefree,  with  plenty  of  spending  money  and  that  happy 
disposition  for  making  friends  readily.  He  drove  his 
own  car,  and  in  general,  had  his  own  way  about  every 
thing.  There  was  nothing  really  bad  about  Simmons 
except  that  he  was  spoiled.  Luckily  for  him,  although 
he  could  not  see  it  that  way,  his  parents  finally  came  to 

(58) 


THE    BLINDNESS    OF   JERRY 

a  realization  of  the  fact.  He  was  gradually  killing  off 
his  mother.  He  did  not  dream  for  an  instant  that  he 
was  the  cause  of  her  failing  health;  that  her  constant 
worrying  about  him  was  bringing  her  just  that  much 
nearer  to  the  somber  valley  of  shadows. 

He  loved  his  mother  as  any  good  son  would.  It 
was  only  that  he  was  selfish  and  self -centered  that  he 
blinded  himself  to  the  actual  conditions.  It  was  the 
family  doctor  who  really  succeeded  in  sending  the  boy 
away  to  school.  It  was  the  same  family  doctor  that 
seriously  explained  to  Jerry  that  he  was  the  source  of 
his  mother's  ill  health.  Of  course,  young  Simmons  was 
naturally  sobered  by  this  conference  with  the  doctor, 
but  in  a  few  days  it  had  fled  from  his  mind,  and  he 
merely  laughed  at  the  good  physician  for  being  an 
"old  fogy." 

Finally  matters  came  to  a  head.  Jerry  refused 
outright  to  obey  his  father.  His  mother  was  in  tears. 
Just  then  the  family  doctor  arrived,  with  the  result  that 
Jerry  Simmons  found  himself  sent  off  to  a  good  mili 
tary  school,  where  he  was  to  learn  to  forget  his  own 
desires  in  the  preference  of  others. 

Upon  his  entrance  into  the  academy  life,  Sim 
mons  seemed  to  fall  into  deep,  gloomy  moods  which  left 
him  irritable  and  grouchy.  He  hated  the  fellows,  the 
faculty,  the  commandant, — everybody,  in  fact,  who  had 
any  connection  with  the  school. 

To  him,  it  was  simply  a  prison,  where  all  good 
times  were  taken  away,  where  smoking  was  under  a  ban 

(59) 


TAPS 

and  a  fellow  couldn't  stay  up  after  nine  o'clock.  All 
this  disgusted  the  lad.  And  to  add  to  his  troubles,  he 
developed  a  severe  case  of  measles  with  the  result  that 
he  was  isolated  for  many  weeks. 

When  he  was  pronounced  well  by  the  school  phy 
sician,  he  found  the  drill  and  the  military  life  all  the 
more  distasteful.  He  grew  so  disagreeable  that  the 
other  cadets  got  so  that  they  would  have  nothing  to  do 
with  him,  and  the  nickname  of  "Grouchy  Simmons" 
soon  became  torture  in  his  ears.  Sometimes  he  almost 
wished  that  he  could  die. 

And  in  his  darkest  moods  he  sometimes  doubted 
that  even  his  mother  loved  him, — his  mother  who  had 
lived  her  life  for  him.  Terrible  and  depressing  were 
these  blotches  in  his  school  life.  No  one  liked  hirr^ 
and  he  liked  no  one. 

If  he  had  only  cared,  just  a  little  bit,  it  would  have 
been  different.  But  he  didn't.  He  took  the  same  list 
less  attitude  about  his  studies.  The  only  thing  that 
seemed  to  rouse  any  interest  in  him  was  a  fair  haired 
baby  girl  that  was  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  faculty 
captains.  Her  dainty  smile  and  delicate,  flaxen  hair 
caused  a  warm  spot  to  grow  in  his  heart.  But  for  an 
instant  only.  Then  his  everyday  reserve  would  fall  on 
him  like  an  ill-fitting  cloak,  and  he  would  become  the 
same  old  "Grouchy  Simmons"  again. 

Then  he  went  home  on  a  furlough,  but  stayed  only 
for  a  day.  His  conduct  had  been  very  bad,  and  had 
had  such  a  disastrous  effect  on  his  mother,  that  he  was 
compelled  to  leave  his  home  again. 

(60) 


THE    BLINDNESS    OF   JERRY 

The  trip  back  to  the  academy  was  not  a  pleasant 
one  for  the  boy.  The  wan,  tired  expression  on  his 
mother's  face  haunted  him.  It  seemed  to  hang  before 
his  eyes,  and  his  heart  was  filled  with  remorse,  and  a 
sort  of  vain  regret.  He  was  going  to  the  bad,  and  he 
knew  it.  He  shuddered.  It  was  not  the  academy's 
fault,  he  decided,  on  the  trip  to  the  school.  The  fel- 
fellows  were  of  a  good  sort,  and  the  academy  was  a 
good  old  school.  It  was  while  he  was  riding  on  that 
train,  alone  with  his  thoughts,  that  the  true  realization 
of  his  error  came  upon  him  in  all  its  magnitude.  The 
fault  was  with  him,  and  him  alone ! 

He  silently  resolved  to  better  his  ways.  He  was 
tired  of  being  called  a  grouch.  He  threw  away  a 
newly-lighted  cigarette  with  disgust.  It  seemed  to  taste 
bitter  in  his  mouth. 

The  decision  was  made.  He  was  going  to  start  a 
thorough  cleaning  out  of  one  Jerry  Simmons,  cadet, 
And,  as  the  veil  of  self-centered  blindness  fell  from 
him,  he  saw  through  the  bandage  of  selfishness  which 
had  come  so  near  ruining  his  life.  Saw  through  it  and 
beyond.  How  he  was  really  to  blame  for  his  mother's 
ill  health,  and  how  the  family  doctor  was  right. 

Jerry  Simmons  was  filled  with  remorse,  not  that 
flitting  kind,  but  the  remorse  which  marks  an  epoch  in 
a  man's  life.  As  the  train  steamed  into  the  Mexico 
station,  on  its  way  to  a  mid-western  metropolis,  Sim 
mons  felt  that  he  had  conquered.  An  indefinable  feel 
ing  of  exaltation  swept  through  him,  as  he  stepped  to 

(61) 


TAPS 

the  pavement  and  chartered  a  taxi  to  take  him  to  the 
academy.  He  was  master  of  himself  once  more. 

Even  his  fellow  cadets  noticed  the  change  in  the 
boy.  It  was  remarked  that  "Grouchy  Simmons"  had 
lost  his  surliness.  From  that  moment  on,  his  com 
panions  grew  more  charitable  toward  him,  and  a  month 
later  he  was  in  good  standing  with  the  cadets.  They 
sometimes  paused  to  wonder  just  what  had  occurred  in 
Jerry's  life  to  mark  such  a  change  of  temper. 

The  fellows  fell  into  the  habit  of  fraternizing  with 
him,  and  calling  him  just  plain  "Jerry."  The  better 
side  of  the  boy  was  steadily  coming  to  the  front,  and 
the  improvements,  for  such  they  were,  were  readily 
welcomed  by  the  busy  commandant  and  here-to-fore 
puzzled  instructors. 

As  the  saying  was  among  the  cadets,  Jerry  Sim 
mons  had  "gone  over."  Or,  in  more  common  language, 
Jerry  Simmons  had  become  a  man. 

The  boy  tilted  back  against  the  only  radiator  that 
his  rather  bare  room  acknowledged.  It  was  rather  cold 
in  the  room,  and  at  a  previous  time,  he  probably  would 
have  growled  about  it,  and  complained  to  the  officer  in 
charge  of  the  barracks  concerning  it.  But  this  night 
he  did  not.  He  had  long  since  lost  the  name  of 
"Grouchy,"  and  he  was  earnestly  trying  to  live  up  to 
the  record  he  was  making  for  himself  anew.  Not  one 
of  surliness,  but  of  friendliness.  It  was  the  Jerry  of 
old,  only  changed,  in  some  regards,  that  tilted  his  chair 
against  the  only  purveyor  of  warmth  that  the  room 

(62) 


THE    BLINDNESS    OF    JERRY 

possessed.  His  room-mate  was  absent  on  a  furlough, 
so  the  boy  had  the  room  to  himself.  He  and  his  room 
mate  had  become  close  friends  since  his,  Jerry's  last 
trip  home,  and  they  found  that  they  had  many  things 
in  common. 

He  missed  his  friend  very  much,  and  the  solitude 
of  a  bare  room  did  not  especially  appeal  to  the  cadet. 
He  was  idly  dreaming  of  the  vacation  to  come,  when 
he  should  go  home  and  show  his  parents  that  he  really 
loved  and  appreciated  them.  He  thought,  with  a  tender 
smile,  of  the  many  little  things  that  he  could  do  to 
make  his  mother  happy,  and  how  glad  she  would  be  to 
find  that  he  had  changed.  His  mind  was  on  these 
things  when  he  was  rudely  awakened  from  his  reveries 
by  a  sharp,  authoritive  knock  on  the  door.  He  sprang 
to  attention.  The  door  opened,  and  the  commandant 
stood  in  the  doorway. 

"Simmons,"  he  said  with  a  rather  sober  look  on  his 
face,  "•  have  something  to  tell  you." 

Jerry  wondered  what  it  was. 

Then,  as  the  commandant  gave  the  boy  "at  ease," 
"I  have  something  unpleasant  to  tell  you,  and  I  think 
that  it  is  best  over  with  at  once." 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  boy  managed  to  reply. 

"I  have  just  received  a  telegram,"  he  commenced 
with  appalling  slowness,  "that  says  your  mother  passed 
away  last  night." 

Jerry  gave  a  little  gasp.  It  was  all  so  sudden,  so 
unexpected.  The  color  left  his  cheek,  and  the  officer 

(63) 


TAPS 


feared  that  he  was  going  to  faint.  All  the  hope,  the 
expectation,  the  effort  the  boy  had  made  had  gone  for 
naught ! 

His  mother — gone. 

He  regained  control  of  himself  enough  to  ask, 
"May  I  be  alone,  sir?" 

The  commandant  had  the  sympathetic  nature  which 
allowed  him  to  understand  just  what  agony  the  boy 
was  going  through,  so  he  very  quietly  closed  the  door 
and  left  the  boy  alone. 

But  Jerry  Simmons  was  not  alone,  for  the  image 
of  his  mother  seemed  to  stand  before  him,  and  Jerry 
could  almost  imagine  her  saying  in  her  calm,  sweet 
voice,  "There,  there,  Jerry,  don't  grieve;  I  am  very 
happy  now." 

The  world  became  of  a  sudden  but  an  empty 
space,  a  place  of  utter  loneliness.  With  his  mother 
gone,  his  heart  was  dead.  He  had  bettered  himself  for 
her,  and  now  all  his  effort  had  come  to  naught. 

He  sobbed  quietly.  The  room  seemed  so  bare,  and 
so  cold.  The  hours  passed,  and  he  sat,  staring  at  noth 
ing,  alone.  Presently  the  kind  hearted  officer  looked 
in  on  the  boy  to  find  him  asleep.  Jerry  had  worn  him 
self  out  with  his  grief,  and  lay  with  his  head  resting  on 
his  arms — a  picture  of  utter  loneliness. 

Jerry  dreamt  that  he  could  see  his  mother,  and  she 
was  in  some  beautiful  land.  Her  arms  were  stretched 
toward  him  but  he  did  not  seem  able  to  go  to  her.  Her 
voice  soothed  his  ears,  and  the  dream  passed  away. 

(64) 


THE    BLINDNESS    OF    JERRY 

When  he  awoke  it  was  far  into  the  night.  His  was  the 
only  light  burning.  He  was  not  the  broken  boy  he  had 
been  a  few  hours  before.  The  vision  of  his  mother  had 
given  him  courage,  and  that  courage  was  still  dominant 
in  him. 

He  left  the  academy  the  next  day  amid  the  heart 
felt  consolations  of  his  friends.  How  different  this  de 
parture  was  from  his  last.  Then  no  one  had  cared 
about  him.  And  now — . 

He  choked  a  bit  as  he  climbed  aboard  the  train. 
It  seemed  so  hard  to  leave  all  these  friends,  and  the 
old  school,  and  everything.  But  his  father  needed  him, 
and  Jerry  knew  that  his  place  was  w-ith  his  father. 

Dear  old  dad,  he  must  have  taken  it  hard.  His 
mother's  passing  had  come  so  suddenly  that  it  hardly 
seemed  possible  that  she  would  not  greet  him  when  he 
entered  the  house.  He  pictured  his  father,  and  how  he, 
Jerry,  would  end  his  school,  days,  and  prove  of  real 
use  to.  the  man  who  loved  him  as  a  father  loves  even 
his  most  wayward  son.  Simmons'  eyes  were  misty 
with  tender  recollections.  He  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  as 
he  bounded  off  the  train  at  his  destination,  and  into  the 
big,  strong  arms  of  his  father. 

"Sonny,"  was  all  the  man  said,  but  in  that  word 
lay  a  meaning  so  big,  and  so  deep,  Jerry  felt  as  if  his 
father  was  the  finest  man  in  all  the  world. 

"Well,  Dad,"  the  boy  began  bravely,  "I  guess  that 
now  Mother's  sleeping,  we'll  have  to  kind  of  pal  along 
together  somehow." 

"Yes,  son,  we  will." 

(65) 


TAPS 

Then  followed  weeks  in  which  Jerry  proved  him 
self  the  man  that  he  had  shown  himself  to  be  at  the 
academy.  He  was  a  constant  source  of  comfort  to  his 
father,  and  there  sprang  between  the  two  a  new  com 
radeship — not  that  of  father  and  son,  but  of  brother  to 
-brother. 

When  the  first  poignant  grief  had  worn  itself 
away,  and  the  dusk  of  time  had  obliterated  the  sharp 
realization  of  a  great  loss,  Jerry  returned  to  the 
academy. 

It  was  his  mother's  unspoken  wish,  both  felt.  So 
the  day  came  when  Jerry  returned  to  school  for  the 
third  time,  carrying  with  him,  locked  deep  into  the  in 
nermost  recesses  of  his  heart,  a  tender,  delicate  love 
for  the  mother  who  gave  him  birth,  and  a  splendid, 
manly  feeling  toward  the  man  who  was  now  to  him 
father, — mother, — pal. 


(66) 


PART  V. 


THE  BISHOP  VISITS 

It  is  not  with  the  intention  of  telling  a  good  one 
on  myself  that  I  set  down  this  tale  of  an  innocent,  re 
ligious  and  susceptible  rat.  Never!  But  fond  recol 
lection  sits  heavily  upon  my  brow  tonight  as  did  sit  the 
Raven  on  Pallas'  bust.  Can  a  rat  have  endearing  recol 
lections,  devote  considerable  time  to  deep  and  silent 
meditation,  wander  from  prank  to  prank  and  hoax  to 
hoax  without  learning  something?  I  doubt  it.  I  ought 
to  know;  I  am  a  rat. 

But  away  from  this  dry  bit  of  pondering,  and  let 
me  tell  you  a  tale  that  will  guide  your  innocent  foot 
steps  and  deliver  you  from  the  snares  which  I  fell  into. 
I  am  worldly-wise  now.  I  can  look  back  at  my  indis 
cretions  with  a  sophisticated  smile.  I  have  been  elevated 
to  a  higher  plane  than  that  which  the  uninitiated  belong 
to.  I  have  had  experience,  and  lo,  I  am  still  here. 

Docility  has  never  been  a  particular  pet  of  mine. 
Docility  and  red  heads  do  not  often  prove  congenial. 
Once  I  had  a  very  trying  experience  with  an  unfriendly 
member  of  the  hornet  family,  as  perhaps  I  have  related 
to  you  previously,  and  one  would  think  that  I  would 
have  been  subdued  in  spirit  and  have  become  a  nice 
docile  rat.  But  as  I  said,  red  heads  and  docility  are 
not  friends. 

But  in  refutation  for  my  various  mistakes  and  mis 
demeanors,  I  can  only  point  out  to  you  what  to  avoid, 

(69) 


TAPS 

and  satisfy  my  heart  and  conscience  that  I  have  set 
some  friend  on  the  right  path.  I  said  that  I  was  sophis 
ticated  now;  that  I  had  passed  into  a  different  plane 
than  those  who  never  tasted  of  experience.  But  even 
then,  I  am  still  a  rat. 

I  will  not  go  into  digressions  on  the  advantages  or 
disadvantages  of  the  rat  family.  As  it  is  said  at  the 
old  academy,  a  rat  is  only  a  rat,  and  nothing  more.  I 
will  let  this  suffice  for  any  digression  that  might  be 
made  on  the  subject.  But  the  point  is,  whether  or  not, 
it  is  my  solemn  duty  to  warn  you  from  certain  evils, 
and  start  a  brother  rat  or  new  boy  on  the  upper  path. 

While  my  state  of  deep  and  sincere — I  assure 
you  they  are  sincere — recollections  roosts  upon  my 
noble  freckled  forehead,  as  did  the  ever  meditative 
Raven  moult  his  very  life  away  caressing  Pallas'  bust, 
so  will  I  relate  my  own  sad  but  sweet  experience  with 
that  most  deceptive  of  all  things — barracks  room  re 
ligion. 

Never  heard  of  it,  you  say?  Most  likely  not,  if 
you  have  never  attended  the  old  academy  as  a  cadet. 
Only  the  presence  of  a  uniform  and  a  pocket  full  of 
spending  money  admits  one  to  the  sacred  precepts  of 
barracks  room  religion. 

I  look  back  over  the  time,  only  a  short  time  ago, 
when  I,  in  all  my  red  headed  ignorance  and  hornet 
stung  innocence  fell  heir  to  a  bad  attack  of  this  so- 
called  religion.  As  I  look  back — it  is  now  with  the 
blase  smile  of  the  knowing — that  I  can  see  what  an 

(70) 


THE  BISHOP  VISITS 

effective  thing  barracks  room  religion  is.  So  simple; 
but  the  results !  Perhaps,  and  I  would  not  tell  this  to 
everybody,  I  will  practice  a  little  of  this  religion  next 
year  myself. 

However  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  story. 
Barracks  room  religion,  my  friend,  is  a  wonderful  thing. 
Only,  and  take  it  from  one  who  knows,  never  get  it 
very  bad  into  your  system.  It  don't  pay. 

Barracks  room  religion?     Never  again! 

And  thereby  lies  my  sad  experience.  I  have  re 
solved  to  set  it  before  you  in  all  its  barren  truthfulness. 
Painful  the  remembrance,  but  it  is  for  your  good,  my 
friend,  and  lend  me  your  ear  for  a  moment  while  I 
pour  the  anointed  oil  of  experience  down  it. 

In  my  childhood — I  speak  from  the  height  of  six 
feet,  I  went  to  Sunday  school  and  was  as  nice  a  little 
boy  as  any  one  could  wish  for.  I  said  my  prayers 
every  night  and  blessed  everybody  from  the  teacher 
down  to  the  collie  pup.  I  had  been  instilled  with  a 
holy  respect  for  the  good  old  carpet  slipper  and  nothing 
filled  me  with  the  desire  so  much  to  become  a  member 
of  a  church  as  the  day  when  parental  rule  forbade  me 
to  indulge  in  a  pleasant  swim  on  a  balmy  Sabbath.  I 
was  very  desirous  of  becoming  a  church  member  that 
day.  I  need  not  add  that  I  thought  to  evade  parental 
authority  by  getting  a  swim  while  being  baptized. 

Even  those  days  are  but  passing  memories  com 
pared  to  my  experience  with  religion  as  they  dealt  it 
out  at  the  old  academy  at  Mexico. 

(71) 


TAPS 

I  roomed  in  what  is  known  as  North  barracks. 
Except  for  a  few  instances  where  my  redheaded  tem- 
perment  overcame  my  mannerly  rat  restraint,  I  lived 
in  comfortable  peace.  As  I  recall  it,  the  Dean  was  hav 
ing  a  series  of  religious  speakers  address  the  cadets, 
and  a  few  of  us  new  men  had  become  considerably  im 
pressed  by  their  vast  and  glorious  descriptions  of  the 
future  life.  So,  as  a  result,  I  made  a  solemn  vow  to 
walk  hereafter  the  straight  and  narrow.  So  far,  so 
good,  but  that  is  not  all 

I  did  not  know,  for  ignorance  is  bliss  with  a  rat, 
that  in  getting  religion,  I  would  have  such  disastrous 
results.  My  cheeks  glowed  as  healthily  as  a  polished 
Hood  River  apple.  I  thought  religion  and  slept  religion. 
So  that  is  how  I  became  a  victim— I  have  only  myself 
to  blame — of  deadly  barracks  room  religion.  Now  it 
leaked  out  in  the  barracks  that  I  had  changed  my  mode 
of  living.  I  had  my  shoes  shined  every  morning,  which 
was  unusual  for  me.  I  even  behaved  so  well  that  the 
commandant  asked  me  if  I  were  feeling  well.  Imagine 
asking  a  redhead  if  he  felt  well ! 

I  have  always  accused  my  roomate,  Courtenay,  of 
being  responsible  for  my  little  flier  into  barracks  room 
religion.  I  presume  he  endured  my  piousness  as  long 
as  he  could  and  then  put  his  foot  down  in  this  manner. 

I  was  so  serious — a  rat  can  be  serious,  you  know, 
that  I  never  even  suspected  anything  out  of  the  ordi 
nary  when  Courtenay  came  into  the  room  one  night  just 
before  taps  and  said  the  bishop  had  come  out  to  hold 

(72) 


THE  BISHOP  VISITS 

the  evening  services.  Now,  even  at  that  time,  I  thought 
it  rather  strange  that  the  bishop,  for  such  my  room 
mate  termed  him,  would  come  out  to  the  academy  at 
such  an  hour.  But  then,  I  considered,  he  might  have 
just  gotten  through  with  services  elsewhere  and  was  do 
ing  us  a  real  favor  by  coming  to  talk  to  us. 

I  was  so  enthusiastic  that  I  would  have  it  no  other 
way  except  that  the  fellows  let  him  hold  his  services 
right  in  my  room.  The  barracks  officer  was  visiting  in 
town  and  I  knew  that  there  would  be  little  chance  for 
interruption.  And  what  matter  if  an  inspection  was 
made,  it  would  be  perfectly  all  right  with  the  bishop 
there.  So  Courtenay  went  to  get  some  of  the  other 
fellows  whom  he  said  would  be  interested  and  they 
came  in  and  settled  themselves  just  before  the  reverend 
gentleman  appeared. 

We  could  hear  him  climbing  the  stairs.  His  walk 
was  somewhat  irregular,  I  thought,  and  I  presumed  him 
to  be  lame.  A  moment  later  the  bishop  stood  in  the 
doorway.  He  peered  into  the  room  smiling  benevolently 
upon  us.  I  rose  to  greet  him.  He  was  a  funny  looking 
person.  He  spoke  in  a  dryed-up  tone  which  reminded 
me  immediately  of  a  wisp  of  alfalfa  that  was  trying  to 
make  an  impression  against  the  summer  wind.  I  could 
not  see  his  eyes,  but  they  must  have  been  very  weak, 
for  he  wore  smoked  glasses  to  shield  them  from  the 
light.  His  collar  was  slightly  askew,  and  he  gave  the 
appearance  of  having  forgotten  to  shave.  Nevertheless, 
I  took  an  immediate  liking  to  him.  He  seemed  so  kind 

(73) 


TAPS 

and  so  helpless  that  I  took  instant  pity  on  him  because 
of  his  infirmity. 

The  reverend  gentleman,  who  introduced  himself  to 
me  as  the  Bishop  of  Luckner,  who  presided  over  the 
district  of  Duncans — a  sort  of  religion  I  was  inclined 
to  think  at  that  time,  although  I  found  that  I  was  mis 
taken  later,  received  me  very  kindly.  I  told  him  my  life 
history  and  haw  many  time  I  had  been  converted.  Then 
he  suggested  that  the  opening  prayer  be  held.  His 
voice,  as  I  said  before,  was  wispish;  yet  there  was  such 
earnestness,  such  deep  notes  of  emotion  at  times  that 
my  heart  went  out  to  him  and  I  felt  that  I  had  indeed 
met  a  wonderful  man.  The  others  seemed  to  enter  into 
the  service  with  unusual  religious  zeal,  and  sprinkled 
his  blessing  with  an  occasional  "Amen!" 

"Bless  us  this  evening,"  the  bishop  of  Luckner 
prayed,  "for  the  lives  of  all  these  pure  little  lambs 
here  tonight.  May  Duncan  and  all  the  high  potentiaries 
of  the  old  academy  be  filled  with  loving  kindness;  and 
bless,  if  you  will,  the  noble  gymnasium,  the  cigarettes, 
which  you  are  not  allowed  to  smoke ;  bless  all  the  meals, 
and  may  the  Lord  do  his  best  to  make  them  better. 
Bless  this  young  man,"  here  he  pointed  solemnly  to  me, 
"for  all  his  noble  deeds  and  instill  in  him  a  freedom 
with  his  coin  for  the  benefit  of  religion,  and  bless  the 
most  supreme  of  all,  the  O.  D." 

So  far  the  bishop  was  very  much  in  earnest.  Now 
that  I  look  back  I  can  see  how  very  ignorant  of  things 
I  must  have  been.  Although  I  did  not  quite  catch  the 

(74) 


THE  BISHOP  VISITS 

part  about  Duncan  and  the  O.  D. — I  was  still  new  at 
the  school  then  and  had  not  thought  much  about  ice 
cream  confections  and  the  officer  of  the  day — I  saw 
much  of  religious  value  and  inspiration  in  his  thanks 
giving  and  blessing. 

And  so  the  meeting  proceeded.  Prayer  after 
prayer,  benediction  after  benediction  until  I  began  to 
wonder  if  there  was  ever  going  to  be  an  end  to  the 
service.  Seemingly  not.  But  presently  the  reverend 
gentleman,  the  bishop  of  Luckner  over  the  Duncans, 
called  upon  me  to  confess  my  sins.  I  was  very  much 
pleased  at  the  honor  thus  bestowed  upon  me  and  at 
tempted  to  fulfil  the  request  to  the  best  of  my  imagina 
tion. 

When  I  finished  telling  all  the  wrong  things  I  had 
done,  and  some  I  hadn't,  for  I  didn't  have  the  heart  to 
disappoint  him,  the  offering  came.  It  was  very  touch 
ing  the  way  the  older  fellows  contributed  to  the  cause. 
They  were  almost  in  tears  as  they  parted  with  their  last 
cent,  but  after  one  look  at  the  noble  bishop  they  re 
solved  themselves  to  give  their  all,  no  matter  how  small 
the  sum  might  be.  The  service  had  raised  me  to  such 
a  high  spiritual  plane  that  I  contributed  five  dollars  to 
the  worthy  effort — the  very  five  I  had  received  from 
home  that  morning  and  had  planned  to  spend  in  ways 
most  cordial  to  one's  stomach. 

Just  as  I  had  contributed  my  small  but  earnest  of 
fering  there  came  a  cry  from  down  the  stairs  of  "Jig 
gers,  the  Com."  Of  a  sudden  the  fellows  disappeared 

(75) 


TAPS 

as  if  by  magic,  and  even  my  good  friend  the  bishop 
took  flight.  I  stood  there  thunderstruck.  Why  should 
they  run  away  from  the  commandant.  I  would  tell  him 
what  we  were  doing  and  it  would  be  all  right  with  him 
I  was  sure. 

"Hi,  Mr.  Bishop,"  I  called  after  his  retreating 
figure,  "It's  only  the  commandant." 

At  that  moment  the  officer  appeared  and  he  gazed 
at  me  in  surprise. 

"What  are  you  doing  standing  in  the  hall?  What 
does  this  mean;  why  were  you  yelling? 

"It's  this  way,  sir,"  I  replied.  I  was  a  bit  in  awe 
of  the  commandant,  even  if  I  had  done  nothing  wrong. 
"We  wTere  having  a  Bible  service  with  Bishop  Luckner 
of  the  Duncans  and  the  fellows  heard  you  coming  and 
took  the  bishop  with  them.  I  knew  that  you  wouldn't 
mind  our  having  a  religious  meeting  so  I  called  after 
the  bishop.  That  was  what  you  heard  me  calling." 

"I  see,"  said  the  commandant.  "Now  just  what 
sort  of  a  man  was  this  bishop?" 

"He  was  a  fine  man,  sir.  He  was  medium  height, 
wore  smoked  glasses  on  account  of  weak  eyes  and  walk 
ed  with  a  limp." 

"He  didn't  happen  to  have  a  dried-up  voice,  did 
he?" 

"Why  yes  sir,  he  did." 

"By  the  way,"  the  commandant  asked  me,  turning 
his  piercing  eyes  upon  me,  "how  much  did  you  con 
tribute?" 

(76) 


THE  BISHOP  VISITS 

"Only  five,  sir." 

"Five  what,  cents?" 

"No,  sir,  dollars." 

"What?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  see.  Well,  in  the  future  see  that  this  bishop," 
here  he  cleared  his  throat,  "doesn't  hold  any  more 
meetings  up  here  in  your  room." 

"Yes,  sir."  I  answered  respectfully.  The  com 
mandant  walked  away,  while  I  sought  my  bed.  My 
room  mate  crept  into  the  room  a  moment  later. 

"Did  you  catch  the  dickens?"  he  asked  as  he  pulled 
off  a  sock. 

"Catch  nothing,"  I  said  scornfully  and  turned  my 
face  to  the  wall. 

In  the  course  of  a  day  or  two  I  happened  to  be 
down  town.  I  stopped  in  at  Luckner's  confectionery 
store  and  ordered  my  favorite  sundae,  a  Duncan.  It 
was  while  I  was  sitting  in  the  balcony  devouring  my  ice 
cream  that  the  truth  suddenly  dawned  upon  me. 

At  that  moment  there  entered  the  store  a  bunch  of 
the  older  fellows  with  the  bishop  of  Luckner  over  the 
Duncans  with  them.  Only  he  did  not  have  on  his 
clerical  gown  this  time.  And  his  smoked  glasses  and 
wispish  voice  were  gone.  He  wore  the  uniform  of  a 
cadet.  He  approached  the  check  counter.  I  could 
scarcely  believe  my  eyes  at  what  I  saw  and  heard. 

"Say,  fellows,"  said  my  once-was  bishop,  "here's 
one  on  the  Red  Head."  And  with  that  he  drew  out  a 

(77) 


TAPS 

five  dollar  bill, — my   five  dollar  bill,   and  treated   the 
fellows. 

Well,  I  know  all  about  barracks  room  religion  now,  for 
to  get  initiated  into  it  cost  me  five  perfectly  good  dollars. 
I  can  speak  with  ease  upon  the  subject  of  some  kinds  of 
religion.  But  after  all,  it  was  a  lesson  to  me,  and  I  do 
not  think  that  I  ever  shall  get  in  such  a  state  again  that 
I  will  need  another  dose  of  barracks  room  religion. 

There,  my  friend,  the  tale  is  done.  And,  if  you 
are  willing  to  let  me  cast  the  fond  recollection  from  my 
noble  brow  as  did  Poe  vainly  try  to  do  with  his  Raven, 
I  would  suggest  that  now  my  little  tale  is  spun  and  I 
am  a  much  wiser  and  sophisticated  youngster  now,  and 
also  as  it  is  off-campus  privilege,  that  we  take  a  little 
hike  down  to  Luckners  and  watch  the  girls  come  in. 

"Barracks  room  religion,  friend?  Never  again!  It 
costs  too  much." 


(78) 


A  LITTLE  MATTER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

The  tall,  giant  firs  cast  a  gloom  over  the  fern-lined 
trail.  It  was  near  dusk,  and  the  shadows  had  lost  their 
sharpness  and  blended  in  with  the  blue  haze  of  the 
mountains.  The  camp  fire  of  a  traveler  made  a  tiny 
speck  of  gold.  Wolves  howled  as  they  circled  the  fire 
while  the  occasional  scream  of  a  mountain  lion  echoed 
and  re-echoed  up  the  mountain  side.  An  occasional 
bat  flitted  silently  past,  while  many  of  the  smaller 
animals  of  the  wilds  were  also  attracted  by  the  gleam 
of  the  flames. 

The  traveler  had  finished  his  supper,  and  having 
stretched  himself  on  his  bed  of  fresh  fir  boughs,  with 
no  other  shelter  than  the  stars  above,  he  lighted  his 
pipe,  and  stared  into  the  fire,  watching  the  flames  leap 
up,  sparks  chase  one  another  in  endless  flight,  up  into 
the  deep  blue-black  of  the  night  sky,  till  they  went  out, 
and  others  took  their  place. 

Night  had  fallen  now  with  all  its  lonesomeness, 
for  nightfall  in  the  mountains  is  lonesome  to  the  man 
who  does  not  love  the  work  of  nature  in  the  rough. 
But  the  traveler  was  not  lonesome.  The  calls  of  the 
night  birds,  the  screeches  of  the  lions  and  bark  of  the 
wolves  caused  him  no  worry.  He  knew  that  they  would 
not  bother  him,  and  were  merely  curious  animals  at 
tracted  by  the  light  of  his  camp  fire.  The  stranger 
liked  the  out-of-doors,  and  entertained  no  fear  for  any 

(79) 


TAPS 

of  the  beasts  of  the  mountains.  The  traveler  would  sit 
up  every  now  and  then,  and  listen,  as  if  to  catch  the 
sound  of  approaching  footsteps.  Then,  assured  that  he 
had  been  mistaken,  would  settle  back  to  his  boughs  and 
pipe. 

A  point  of  light  appeared  far  down  the  mountain 
side.  At  first  the  man  could  scarcely  tell  whether  he 
saw  it  or  not.  Slowly  but  steadily  the  light  advanced, 
and  the  stranger  knew  from  the  position  of  the  light 
that  it  would  be  a  full  hour  and  a  half  before  the  man 
who  carried  it  reached  the  spot  where  he  was  camped. 

"It  must  be  Tad,  all  right,"  the  traveler  remarked, 
stretching  himself,  and  piling  more  logs  on  the  fire. 
"Guess  I  had  better  get  a  bite  to  eat  for  him.  He 
ought  to  be  pretty  hungry."  The  stranger  chuckled. 
He  was  sure  that  the  approaching  light  meant  the  com 
ing  of  his  friend,  and  he  was  secretly  pleased  that  Tad 
had  had  the  grit  to  stick  out  the  hard  climb  up  the 
mountain  at  night. 

He  put  water  on  to  boil,  and  sat  down  to  await  the 
arrival  of  the  second  traveler.  The  stars  shone  like  a 
million  diadems,  and  the  cool,  fresh  air,  scented  with 
the  odor  of  pines  and  evergreen  made  the  night  one 
out  of  a  thousand.  By  day,  the  mountains,  if  viewed 
from  a  distance,  gave  the  appearance  of  having  a  blue 
haze  resting  lightly  on  their  tops.  For  this  reason  they 
were  called  the  Blue  Mountains.  The  stranger  had  grown 
to  love  these  Oregon  hills  and  the  virile  life  of  the  red- 
blooded  West  pulsated  through  his  veins.  He  had 

(80) 


grown  to  love  these  nights  under  the  open  skies,  and 
now  that  his  friend  was  to  join  him,  he  felt  that  sum 
mer  held  more  charms  than  ever.  The  tramps,  the 
hunts  they  would  have. 

The  light  appeared  close  at  hand.  He  put  his  hands 
to  his  mouth,  and  hallooed.  The  echoes  flung  his  cry 
back  again  and  again.  Then  he  could  hear  the  answer 
ing  shout.  It  was  Tad! 

Five  minutes  later  the  second  traveler  came  into 
view,  flashing  his  electric  torch  this  way  and  that  over 
the  trail.  The  camper  rose  to  meet  him. 

"Hi,  there,  Tad.     Make  it  all  right?"  he  greeted. 

"Sure,  Bob.  Black  as  pitch.  Got  off  the  trail 
once  or  twice,  but  here  I  am."  The  boy,  for  such  he 
was,  unslung  the  pack  from  his  shoulders  and  flopped 
himself  down  on  the  fir  boughs. 

"Whew,"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  stretched  his  weary 
limbs,"  but  that  is  some  climb.  Say,  Bob,  we  won't 
have  one  like  that  every  day,  will  we?"  His  expres 
sion  was  one  of  sUch  concern  that  the  first  traveler 
burst  out  laughing. 

"Climb,  Tad?  Why  that  will  seem  like  falling  off 
a  log  by  the  time  we  go  on  some  real  trips.  It  just 
takes  a  while  for  one  to  get  toughened  up  to  it,  that's 
all.  I  didn't  expect  you  to  make  it  up  here  tonight  as 
well  as  you  did." 

"It  helped  out,  my  being  up  here  two  summers  ago, 
and  then  all  I  had  to  do  was  to  follow  the  trail.  But 
even  this  time  I  nearly  got  mixed  where  that  other  trail 

(81) 


TAPS 

leads  off  from  Sailing's  camp  to  the  deep  spring.  They 
told  me  at  Aunt  Sary  McDougal's  camp  that  you  had 
passed  along  there  about  noon.  They  all  seemed  to 
wonder  why  I  should  be  trailing  after  you  at  such  an 
hour.  Told  me  there  were  cougars  and  wild  cats." 
The  boy  laughed. 

"Well,  Tad,  there's  nothing  like  minding  your  own 
business  that  makes  other  people  curious,"  he  chuckled. 
"I  guess  when  it  comes  to  curiosity,  these  paying-camp 
ers  who  haven't  anything  to  do  day  in  and  day  out  but 
to  sit  around  or  pick  huckleberries  get  the  prize."  Bob 
rose  and  replenished  the  fire.  He  yawned. 

'  'Bout  time  to  hit  the  boughs,  eh,  Tad  ?"  he  sug 
gested,  seeing  that  the  boy,  a  young  fellow  of  about 
seventeen,  with  curly  brown  hair  and  square,  firm  chin 
and  steady  blue  eyes,  was  already  nodding  over  the 
scrap  of  food  he  had  fixed  for  him. 

"Suits  me,"  agreed  the  boy,  and  arose  so  suddenly 
that  he  nearly  spilled  the  coffee  pot  into  the  fire. 

"Say,  Bob?" 

"Yes?"  queried  the  other. 

"Do  you  think  I  can  get  strong  again  like  I  used 
to  be  before  I  had  the  accident?"  he  wistfully  asked. 

"Strong?     Why  you  look  fine  right  now." 

"I  know  it,  but  ever  since  that  accident  I  have 
never  felt  the  same.  I'm  all  right  for  a  spell,  and  then 
I  get  sick  again.  The  doctor  says  that  a  summer  out- 
of-doors  is  the  only  thing  that  will  get  me  into  shape. 

(82) 


A   LITTLE   MATTER   OF   FRIENDSHIP 

"I  wouldn't  worry  about  it  now."  Bob  replied 
kindly.  "With  all  this  pure  air  and  these  pines  to  smell, 
no  man  can  stay  sick  very  long." 

"Bob,  it  was  darn  decent  of  you,  with  plenty  of 
your  college  fellows  to  pick  from  down  at  Berkeley,  to 
choose  me  to  come  along  with  you." 

"Decent?  Say  kid,  I'd  rather  spend  a  summer  hik 
ing  around  these  old  Blue  Mountains  with  you-  than 
almost  any  of  those  fellows  who  are  so  used  to  being 
waited  on  that  they  would  have  expected  to  bring  along 
a  valet  or  two  on  the  trip.  No  siree,  kid,  I  was  only 
doing  myself  a  kindness,  and  you  are  the  one  who  is 
really  conferring  the  favor." 

Tad  laughed  to  hide  his  emotions.  To  have  the 
greatest  half-back  on  the  coast  choose  him  as  a  hiking 
pal  because  he  really  liked  him  was  greater  praise  than 
even  the  President  himself  could  give.  The  two  had 
grown  up  together  in  Pendleton,  a  town  near  the  moun 
tains,  and  just  as  Tad  was  to  finish  high  school  the 
next  year,  Bob  would  become  a  Junior  in  the  university. 
There  was  a  difference  in  their  ages  of  perhaps  a  little 
over  three  years.  But  long  companionship  had  bridged 
the  matter  of  three  years  and  turned  it  into  a  little  mat 
ter  of  friendship. 

So  here  he,  Tad,  was  up  on  the  top  of  the  Blue 
Mountains  with  the  very  best  friend  that  he  had.  So 
the  scream  of  the  cougars  and  the  hoot  of  the  owls 
lulled  the  boy  to  sleep.  And  while  he  slept,  the  stars 
shone  bright  overhead,  and  the  fire  burned  low. 

(83) 


TAPS 

Six  weeks  passed.  Six  weeks  of  invigorating  life, 
full  flooded  virility.  They  had  been  a  wonderful  six 
weeks  to  Tad,  and  although  he  had  been  up  in  the  moun 
tains  many  times  before  for  shorter  intervals,  he  had 
never  enjoyed  himself  as  much  as  these  weeks,  roaming 
and  exploring,  hunting  and  fishing,  living  a  healthy 
life  with  Bob.  . 

The  six  weeke  were  up.  In  a  little  while  Tad 
would  return  to  school,  a  military  school  in  the  middle 
west,  this  year.  It  had  been  decided  before  he  started 
on  his  trip  that  he  should  go  away  for  his  last  year  of 
preparatory  school  work.  So  in  a  week  or  two  he 
would  be  leaving  his  Blue  Mountains,  his  Oregon  firs 
and  clean,  sweet  winds,  and  go  away  to  school.  He 
wondered  what  kind  of  a  place  it  would  be.  He  looked 
forward  to  the  trip,  but  it  seemed  so  far  from  his  out- 
of-doors,  his  pal  and  home. 

They,  Tad  and  Bob,  were  trudging  down  the  trail. 
It  was  the  same  trail  which  the  boy  had  come  up  that 
memorable  night  six  weeks  before.  And  what  a  differ 
ent  boy  it  was  this  time.  His  cheeks  had  filled  out,  his 
muscles  were  firmer,  and  the  old  Tad  was  gone.  He 
was  well.  His  tanned  face  bore  evidence  of  his  out 
door  life,  and  his  chin  set  a  bit  squarer,  and  his  eyes 
seemed  a  bit  steadier  than  when  he  climbed  up  the 
trail  a  few  weeks  before. 

They  passed  Sailing's  camp,  where  the  inhabitants 
turned  out  to  give  welcome  to  the  travelers.  Then  on, 
down  the  mountain  past  "Aunt  Sary's"  as  the  people 

(84) 


A   LITTLE   MATTER   OF   FRIENDSHIP 

were  wont  to  call  the  old  lady,  and  on  into  the  little 
hamlet  that  nestled  at  the  very  foot  of  the  mountains. 

Just  before  they  started  down  the  final  slope,  and 
sat  resting,  overlooking  the  valley  below,  Bob  turned 
toward  the  younger  boy. 

"Tad,  I  want  to  give  you  some  good  advice.  You're 
going  away  to  school.  You  will  meet  with  new  prob 
lems  and  you'll  knock  up  against  the  world  a  little  more. 
Now  what  I  had  in  mind  was  this.  You  will  probably 
be  going  out  for  athletics.  Very  likely  track.  You've 
got  your  health  back  again,  and  I  want  you  to  go  in 
and  win.  And  furthermore,"  he  added,  "I  want  you, 
when  you  start  a  thing,  to  finish  it.  Above  all,  remem 
ber  that  there  is  even  in  athletics,  such  a  thing  as  honor. 
I'm  going  to  watch  you,  kid,  and  I  want  you  to  make 
good.  There's  always  room  for  good  men  at  the  uni 
versity,  and  I  want  you  to  be  able  to  tell  me  when  you 
come  back  next  spring  that  you  kept  your  honor  clean. 
Don't  think  this  is  a  sermon,  kid,  for  it  isn't,  but  I 
know  what  you  are  up  against,  and  I  want  you  to  make 
good." 

The  two  were  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  Tad,  not 
daring  to  trust  his  voice,  extended  his  hand.  Bob  took 
it,  and  knew  that  the  "Kid"  had  given  his  promise. 

They  descended  the  rest  of  the  trail  in  silence.  It 
was  to  be  their  last  hike  in  the  mountains  for  a  whole 
year.  As  they  reached  the  foot,  they  stopped  for  a 
moment  to  look  back  at  the  mountain  and  its  blue- 
tinted  mates.  Tad  gave  a  little  sigh.  "I  guess  it's 

(85) 


TAPS 

good-bye  Blue  Mountains,"  he  said.     "Gee,  Bob,  I'll  be 
glad  to  get  back." 

"And  so  will  I,"  affirmed  his  friend. 

A  few  days  later,  Tad  boarded  the  train  for  the 
new  school,  and  took  one  last  look  at  the  near-by  moun 
tains.  Nine  long  months,  he  meditated.  But  they  were 
to  pass  quickly,  as  he  afterward  found  out. 

Three  days  later  he  arrived,  dusty  and  travel-weary, 
at  the  little  station  of  Mexico.  There  were  fellows  in 
uniforms  and  those  in  citizen's  clothes,  but  all  seemed 
to  be  having  the  time  of  their  life. 

"Going  out  to  the  old  academy?"  asked  a  merry 
faced  fellow  at  his  side. 

"Why,  yes,  if  you  will  tell  me  how  to  get  there." 

"Well,  there's  two  ways,"  replied  the  cadet,  for 
such  he  was,  "either  pay  a  quarter  and  ride  in  the  bus, 
or  walk.  It  isn't  very  far,  and  if  you  aren't  tired  you 
can  come  along  with  me,  I'm  going  out  there  now." 

"Not  a  bit  tired,  only  dusty.  And  I'd  rather  walk 
than  ride  any  day." 

"Good  stuff,"  replied  the  cadet.  "Most  of  us  do 
walk — that  is  when  we're  broke.  By  the  way,"  he 
asked,  changing  the  subject,  "where  do  you  come 
from?" 

"The  West,"  answered  Tad  smiling,  "and  Oregon 
in  particular." 

"The  deuce  you  say!  Well,  you  don't  look  woolly." 
The  cadet  gazed  at  the  new  boy  intently. 

Tad  laughed. 

(86) 


A  LITTLE  MATTER  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

"You  see  we  aren't  all  so  wild  as  we're  pictured," 
he  said,  "and  we  don't  even  get  massacred  every  other 
evening  by  the  Indians,  either.  No,  the  West  is  pretty 
well  tamed  now  days." 

The  two  boys  turned  from  the  main  street  up  a 
residence  promenade.  As  they  continued  in  this  direc 
tion  Tad  began  to  catch  glimpses  of  the  old  academy. 
It's  massive  dome  and  portly  pillars. 

"She  looks  great,"  he  commented  to  his  companion. 

"She  sure  does,"  returned  the  cadet  who  had  not 
been  looking  at  the  academy  at  all,  but  had  been  feast 
ing  his  eyes  on  a  strikingly  pretty  girl  passing  by  on 
the  other  side  of  the  street.  "Her  name  is  Jane  Park. 
I  used  to  go  with  her  last  year." 

"I   mean  the  academy,"   explained  the  Westerner, 

"Oh,"  laughed  the  boy,  "that's  a  good  one  on  me. 
The  old  school  does  look  pretty  decent  this  time  of 
year." 

They  entered  the  academy  grounds.  In  due  course 
of  time,  Tad  was  conducted  to  the  offices  and  became  a 
full  fledged  new  boy. 

The  months  passed  quickly  for  the  boy;  even  faster 
than  he  thought  it  possible.  Spring  came  into  bloom 
after  a  cold  winter.  Basketball  season  was  over  and 
track  and  baseball  were  the  athletics  of  the  hour.  Tad 
had  hoped  to  get  on  the  track  team,  and  he  faithfully 
turned  out  every  night  after  drill  for  practice  in  his 
event,  the  220  yard  dash.  The  splendid  vigor  which 
his  weeks  in  the  mountains  had  instilled  in  him  stood 

(87) 


TAPS 

in  good  stead,  and  there  was  a  firmness  in  his  muscles 
that  made  even  the  largest  of  the  old  boys  about  the 
academy  respect  him.  Tad  was  not  a  popular  man,  in 
the  complete  meaning  of  the  word.  For  one  matter,  no 
new  man  ever  is  at  the  old  academy.  He  must  be  tried 
out  a  year  so  that  his  worth  may  be  seen.  Tad  was  far 
too  quiet  to  gain  a  large  circle  of  friends.  But  the 
friends  that  he  did  make  were  of  a  good  sort,  and  he 
was  happy. 

The  coach  looked  at  the  Westerner  as  a  boy  with 
a  great  future  in  track.  His  leg  muscles  had  been  well 
developed  by  his  summer's  hiking,  his  lungs  had  a  great 
capacity,  for  the  pure  air  of  the  mountains  had 
strengthened  them  and  made  them  all  the  more  reliable, 
while  the  endurance  which  he  had  gained  by  the  some 
times  fatiguing  trips  endowed  him  with  that  thing  called 
grit. 

So  Tad  remembered  what  his  friend  had  told  him, 
and  kept  his  honor  clean.  An  honor  which  was  soon  to 
be  tested  to  the  breaking  point. 

The  big  track  event  was  near  at  hand.  The  boy 
waited  anxiously  for  the  posting  of  the  names  of  those 
men  who  would  go  to  the  meet  to  defend  the  honor  of 
the  old  academy.  The  deciding  day  finally  dragged 
around,  and  Tad  eagerly  scanned  the  list  on  the  bulle 
tin  board  in  search  of  his  name.  Was  it  there?  A 
moment  of  breathless  suspense  followed.  Then  with  a 
smile  of  relief,  Tad  turned  away  from  the  bulletin.  He 
was  to  run  for  the  old  academy. 

(88) 


A   LITTLE   MATTER   OF   FRIENDSHIP 

The  day  of  the  meet  came.  With  his  muscles  un 
der  perfect  control,  his  legs  as  steady  as  an  iron  man's 
and  with  that  spring  which  denotes  a  good  runner, 
Tad  donned  his  track  suit  with  the  maroon  and  gold 
bar  across  the  breast.  He  was  proud  of  that  suit  for  it 
meant  that  he  had  earned  the  right  to  help  defend  the 
honor  of  his  school. 

The  other  events  were  run  off.  The  field  events 
had  taken  place,  and  the  deciding  points  were  to  be 
won  in  this  event.  If  the  old  academy  failed  to  win 
first  place  with  a  good  third  following,  the  school,  his 
school  was  defeated. 

The  coach  gave  him  an  encouraging  pat  as  he 
trotted  to  the  starting  line.  His  heart  beat  a  trifle  quicker, 
and  his  knees  seemed  suddenly  weak.  Was  he  going  to 
fail  at  the  last  moment?  Then  he  remembered  Bob's 
talk  to  him  that  afternoon  as  they  sat  on  the  point 
overlooking  that  peaceful  Oregon  valley  the  summer 
before,  and  that  Bob  had  wanted  him  to  keep  his  honor 
clean. 

As  if  by  magic,  his  knees  grew  strong,  and  his 
heart  regained  its  natural  pulse. 

"On  your  marks!"  He  crouched;  his  legs  felt  as  if 
they  were  steel  springs. 

"Get  set !"  A  moment  of  breathlessness  from  the 
grandstand. 

"Go !"  The  starting  pistol  barked  out  this  per 
emptory  command.  They  were  off,  Tad  leading  the 
others.  Away,  away !  The  crowd  roared  its  excitement 

(89) 


TAPS 

while  the  band  tooted  its  very  loudest.  The  decisive 
race  was  being  run.  The  old  academy  was  to  win  or 
lose. 

Swift  as  the  new  boy  was,  a  runner  from  the  op 
posing  team  proved  to  be  his  equal.  It  -was  a  race  be 
tween  them  for  the  victory.  On  Tad  flew,  putting 
every  bit  of  energy  he  could  gather  into  his  fairly  fly 
ing  limbs. 

The  final  spurt.  His  legs  were  tired.  He  felt  so 
tired.  But  that  did  not  matter.  Nothing  mattered  ex 
cept  the  school  and  Bob.  He  hurled  himself  forward 
with  renewed  energy,  keeping  just  at  the  side  of  his 
rival.  It  was  nip  and  tuck.  He  could  see  the  tape 
just  a  little  way  ahead.  Another  spurt.  His  rival  was 
still  beside  him.  With  a  last  effort,  he  flung  himself 
against  the  tape,  to  feel  it  part  just  as  he  started  to 
come  against  it.  The  rival  school  had  won. 

He  stretched  himself  on  the  grass,  exhausted.  He 
had  lost,  but  so  close  to  victory.  How  could  he  face 
the  fellows  and  Bob.  What  was  that?  Cheering?  It 
sounded  like  his  name.  It  was  his  name.  Why  should 
they  cheer  him  when  he  had  lost  the  meet. 

"Feel  all  right  now,"  asked  someone  as  he  raised 
himself  on  his  arm. 

"What  are  they  yelling  for?"  the  boy  asked,  seeing 
objects  more  plainly. 

"Yelling  for?  Why,  for  you,  of  course.  Don't 
you  know  that  you  won  the  meet?" 

"What?"  stammered  Tad. 
(90) 


A   LITTLE   MATTER   OF    FRIENDSHIP 

"Sure  thing.  Almost  a  tie  but  the  judg.es  say  you 
broke  the  tape  first." 

So  even  the  judges  thought  that  he  had  won.  And 
the  other  man  had  really  won.  Well,  it  was  his  hard 
luck.  The  judges  should  have  kept  better  watch.  Then 
there  flashed  across  his  mind  those  words  of  Bob's, 
"Even  in  athletics,  keep  your  honor  clean." 

They  stung  him  as  much  as  if  he  had  suddenly 
been  lashed  by  a  whip.  Keep  his  honor  clean.  But  how 
about  the  honor  of  the  school,  the  old  academy?  Bob 
had  said  nothing  about  that. 

Was  he  to  keep  his  own  honor  clean  and  that 
would  mean  the  losing  of  the  meet,  or  would  he  keep 
the  athletic  honor  of  the  school  clean,  win  the  meet, 
but  sacrifice  his  own  honor?  It  required  quick  think 
ing,  and  a  quicker  decision.  The  old  academy  would 
not  want  a  victory  that  had  not  been  fairly  won.  He 
was  sure  of  it. 

"Mr.  Judge!" 

"Yes,  what  is  it?" 

"There's  been  a  mistake  made.  I  didn't  win  that 
event.  My  rival  broke  the  tape  just  as  I  touched  it." 

"Do  you  realize  what  you  are  saying,  young  man?" 

"Yes  sir." 

"Coach,  your  man  says  that  he  did  not  rightfully 
win  that  race.  The  other  man  broke  the  tape  first." 

"What?"  thundered  the  coach.  "Not  win  that 
race?  Why  I  saw  him  with  my  own  eyes." 

"He  is  right  sir.  I  know  you'll  hate  me  for  it, 
(91) 


TAPS 

sir,  but  I  couldn't  stand  to  win  unfairly.  I  know  it 
sounds  silly,  but  I  made  a  promise  last  summer  that  I 
would  keep  my  honor  clean  in  atheltics.  I  couldn't 
break  it,  even  now.  I'm  sorry,  sir." 

"Sorry,  eh?     For  what,  now?" 

"For  having  to  tell  the  truth  and  lose  the  meet." 
Tad  looked  him  straight  in  the  eye.  He  was  up  against 
a  man,  whom,  he  felt,  was  going  to  hold  him  up  to  the 
fellows  as  a  sissy. 

The  crowd  had  begun  to  scatter,  and  Tad  walked 
silently  by  the  side  of  his  coach  to  the  dressing  rooms. 
As  he  started  to  enter  the  coach  detained  him  for  a 
moment. 

"Tad,"  he  said,  offering  his  hand,  "you've  got  grit 
and  honor.  Stick  to  those  two  things  and  you'll  win. 
You  did  the  right  thing,  the  thing  that  very  few  would 
have  dared  to  do.  I'm  proud  of  you,  and  the  old 
academy  will  be,  too." 

Tad  could  think  of  nothing  to  say.  He  merely 
mumbled  a  word  and  passed  on  to  the  showers.  He 
had  done  the  right  thing,  and  now  he  could  look  Bob 
in  the  eye  and  tell  him  that  he  had  kept  his  honor  and 
that  of  the  old  academy's  clean. 

*  *  *  * 

It  was  summer  again,  and  the  night  was  falling  on 
the  Blue  Mountains  just  as  it  had  nearly  a  year  before. 
A  campfire  glowed  a  burning  gold.  The  wild  things 
called  and  threatened,  just  as  they  had  months  before. 
There  were  two  travelers  by  the  fire,  two  healthy 

(92) 


A   LITTLE   MATTER   OF    FRIENDSHIP 

men,  who  talked  over  the  past  year.  It  had  been  a 
wonderful  year,  and  this  night,  with  its  cool  Oregon 
breeze  and  pine  scented  fragrance  seemed  a  fitting  cli 
max  for  the  year. 

"Tad,  old  boy,"  the  older  traveler  broke  the  silence, 
"I'm  glad  you  won.  No,  not  the  track  meet  back  there 
in  June,  even  if  there  was  a  mistake  in  the  scorekeep- 
ing,  and  the  old  academy  didn't  lose  after  all.  Not 
that,  Tad,  but  over  your  own  self.  The  more  one  goes 
to  college  the  more  one  learns  that  honor  is  a  prime 
necessity  in  life.  But  tell  me,  kid,  what  made  you  de 
cide  the  way  you  did?" 

It  was  fully  a  moment  before  Tad  answered.  A 
serious  little  smile  crept  over  his  face. 

"Just  a  litle  matter  of  friendship,"  he  replied. 

The  bats  circled  in  ghostlike  silence  about  the  fire, 
flitting  off  now  and  then  into  the  blue-black  darkness 
of  the  Oregon  night.  The  cougars  screeched  and  the 
mountain  wolves  howled.  A  great  awkward  black  bear 
shambled  into  a  huckleberry  thicket  near  by.  The  tops, 
of  the  evergreens  bent  slightly  with  the  night  wind  and 
a  screech  owl  hooted  its  solemn  warning. 

As  the  travelers  stretched  themselves  on  their  fir 
bough  beds,  with  no  roof  but  the  starry  vault,  they  fell 
to  sleep.  And  while  they  slept  a  hush  stole  over  the 
mountain  fastnesses  and  the  fire  burned  low. 

(93) 


TAPS 

When  the  lights  flicker  out,  and  all  is  dark, 

And  the  bull- frogs  croak  in  the  pond, 

When  the  white- faced  moon  her  radiance  sheds 

Over  the  lofty  dome. 

When  the  trees  are  murmuring  their  evening's  lullaby, 

And  the  hum  and  the  whir  of  the  insects,  all 

Blend  in  with  the  breath  of  spring, 

Then  comes  the  call  through  the  sound-lorn  air — 

The  call  of  a  bugle  clear. 

And  its  soft,  sweet  notes  swell  out  and  on, 

And  it  touches  the  hearts  of  those  within, 

For  the  call  is  "Taps" — the  summons  to  rest. 

The  end  of  day  is  come. 


(95) 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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